Claiming Lydia Martin
by lunaticathart
Summary: Stiles is still determined to win Lydia's affections from Jackson. He conspires a plan with his new friend, Zoe, to help increase the odds in his favor: Zoe will pretend to be Stiles's girlfriend in an effort to make Lydia jealous. It's a simple plan, fool-proof... That is, until Zoe complicates things by falling in love with him.
1. Chapter 1

**FULL SUMMARY: **[Post S02] Stiles is still determined to win Lydia's affections from Jackson. He's positive he can accomplish this, but not everyone is as confident he will succeed—namely his new friend, Zoe. The two conspire a plan to help increase the odds in his favor: Zoe will pretend to be Stiles's girlfriend in an effort to make Lydia jealous. It's a simple plan, fool-proof… That is, until Zoe complicates the plan by falling in love with him.

**WARNINGS:** This story is rated T - mostly for language (as of now). Warnings will be posted accordingly as new elements are introduced.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story follows the original series as closely as possible. Scott is still a werewolf and the rest of the gang all fulfill their rightful roles. However, the supernatural component is more hinted at than fully realized, due to it being a low focal point of the story itself. I've tried to follow my interpretation of their characterizations as closely as possible, however there is still a good chance for OOC-ness. Just a heads-up.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do **not** own _Teen Wolf_. I **do**, however, own Zoe and whatever other original characters you may encounter along the way.

* * *

**CHAPTER o1**

"Zoe. Suze."

I look up from rinsing out a brew pitcher in the sink. Brian, the manager on tonight's shift at Cuppa, is crowding the barista station. Cuppa is a small, well-known café in Beacon Hills; it's more or less a hippie joint, quaint and kitschy, and very popular among the student and (struggling) artist crowds.

Standing next to Brian is a teenage boy about my height, dressed in a pair of beige khakis, our company t-shirt—deep maroon with Cuppa's logo silk-screened in bright yellow across the front—and a long forest green apron tied about the waist. The boy has short, buzzed brown hair, warm brown eyes and pale skin flecked with moles.

"Can you c'mere a sec?" Brian says to my co-worker, Suze (her real name is Susan, but no one ever calls her that). Suze abandons her post at the cash register and bounces over in typical overly energetic Suze fashion to join our group.

"Can you take a break from doing that, Zoe?" Brian says to me, and I jump, snapping to attention. I'd gotten caught up in staring at the boy. I don't feel awkward about it, though, because he's staring right back at me.

"Sorry." I set the pitcher down in the sink and turn the faucet off. Wiping my hands dry on my apron, I give them my full attention.

"All right, ladies—I'd like to introduce you to the newest member of the Cuppa family…" Brian begins his announcement, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder. In the boy's hands is the customary black visor we're supposed to wear when we're on the clock; he rotates it in full, continuous circles—a restless, fidgety motion.

"Stiles," I supply before Brian can have the chance to tell us his name. Brian's bushy eyebrows jump up in mild surprise.

"You two know each other?" he asks. I open my mouth to respond, but Stiles beats me to it.

"Not intimately," he says, winking at me. "We go to school together."

"Oh, great." Brian claps his hands together, game face back in place. "I'm sure you two will have fun working together, then."

I just barely manage to repress the urge to roll my eyes. Yeah, because going to the same high school instantly makes us best friends.

Stiles couldn't have put it better himself: We're in the same grade at Beacon Hills High and we've shared a couple of classes, but that's it. Apart from our mutual classes, we've had no contact with each other. Actually, even _in_ those classes we still pretty much had no contact (unless you count occasionally making eye contact from across the room or asking to borrow a pencil from one another, which I don't).

We just travel in different circles, I guess. We don't have any of the same friends; we aren't involved in any of the same activities.

Stiles gets straight A's, plays lacrosse (see: mostly warms the bench), and is probably the founding member of that mystical card game club that meets every Tuesday after school. (The only reason I know this is because their meeting place was in my sixth period English classroom; everyone else had to clear out by 3:15 so that they could use it.) I seriously wouldn't put it past him; I've overheard numerous discussions about werewolves and whatever other random, paranormal creatures between Stiles and his best friend, Scott McCall.

I, on the other hand, get average grades, fill all of my electives with art classes, and volunteer to read with little kids at a nearby daycare every Thursday as my sole after-school activity.

Plus, part of me wonders if Stiles still holds a bit of a grudge against me for that one incident that happened during our freshman year…

"Okay—well, as I was saying," Brian continues, "Stiles is going to be working with us from now on. I'm going to have you guys start training him on the register and barista." To me, he says, "Actually, maybe focus more on barista. Good time to do that, since it's so slow tonight."

"Okay," I acquiesce. My eyes flicker over to Stiles, but his expression is unreadable.

"Great." Brian claps Stiles on the shoulder one more time. "Now, don't worry, Stiles. You're in good hands. Zoe and Suze are two of my best girls. But if you _do_ have any trouble, don't hesitate to come get me. I'll be in the office."

With that, Brian wanders off, leaving Stiles alone with Suze and me. Once Brian is concealed behind the closed door of his office, Suze bounces up and down on the balls of her heels.

"It's nice to meet you, Stiles, and welcome to Cuppa," she chirps, eagerly thrusting her hand out to him. "I know you already know Zoe here, so I'll just introduce myself. I'm Suze."

Stiles looks at her hand, seemingly overwhelmed by her enthusiasm, which isn't unusual; a lot of people are. I consider Suze to be the ultimate Cuppa mascot: Bright, cheery, and constantly full of energy. She can be kind of exhausting to be around, actually. But she's really sweet, and she seems to attract a lot of male customers. She looks a bit like a human-sized version of Tinker Bell—petite, with a blond bob that's usually pulled back into an attractively messy ponytail, light blue eyes, and a brilliant smile that's nearly blinding.

"Yeah, I got that," Stiles says, almost cautiously receiving her hand in his own and giving it two short, firm pumps before releasing it. "You go to Beacon Hills, too?" he asks, unsure.

"Oh, no," she replies, giggling. If I didn't know any better I'd think Suze is flirting with him, but after four months of working together I've come to learn that sort of trait just comes naturally to her. "Well, not anymore. I graduated from there last year. Now I'm a freshman at BHCC."

"Congrats on graduating, then. We've still got two more years to go. Right, Zo?"

Ugh. 'Zo'? Really? My name's short enough as it is; no one's ever felt the need to give me a nickname before. I don't like it.

"Um, yeah, _Sty_," I reply sarcastically. Stiles grins.

"I take it that's a no to 'Zo', then?"

"Unless you're cool with 'Sty'."

"I've been called worse." Suze giggles.

"You two are funny," she observes. "Are you sure you're not friends already?"

"Oh, yeah, real good friends," Stiles replies wryly. "Ever since Zo barfed all over my sneakers in Biology."

There it is. I knew he hadn't forgotten. Although, to be fair, I don't think I'd ever be able to forget if I'd been on the receiving end of that, either.

"_What_?!" Suze exclaims, her pretty face contorted into a look of disgust.

"Yeah, we were partners for the fetal pig dissection lab we had to do in class," Stiles goes on to explain. "And, apparently, Zo here's got a weak constitution."

"Oh, God," I groan, heat rushing to my cheeks at the memory. "You're not gonna let me live that down, are you? It's not like I did it on purpose. I apologized, and my parents even gave you money to replace them."

"And I greatly appreciated it. However, that still doesn't change the fact that the school offered to call _my dad_ to see if he could bring me another pair of shoes, it was that bad," he says, looking to Suze appealingly, as if daring her to not sympathize with his plight. "But I didn't want to bother him at work over something like that, so I just went around in only my socks for the rest of the day."

"Did you not smell the formaldehyde it was soaked in? That stench alone was enough to make anyone nauseous." Stubbornly, I add, "Besides, I still maintain it was partially your fault. If you hadn't decided to crack open its skull and mash up its brains, I probably would've been able to stomach through it."

Suze is looking a little green by this point.

"It was a biology project," Stiles defends himself, but he doesn't really sound that defensive. There's a suspicious gleam in his eyes, a subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth, like he's trying to hold it back, and I suddenly get the sense that he's not actually trying to make me feel like shit. He's just being a smartass who genuinely finds this all very amusing. "We were supposed to take it apart and study its _biological_ make-up."

"Yeah, from the mouth down," I point out, refusing to back down. "The skull definitely wasn't part of the assignment."

"You could never be a doctor."

"Good thing I have no desire to be one, then."

Just then, the bell over the front door jingles, signaling that a customer has entered.

"I'm gonna go take care of this," Suze stage whispers, and she couldn't sound more eager to remove herself from the conversation. She quickly whirls on her heel and goes to take her place at the register, greeting our customer with an overly cheerful, if somewhat rushed, "Hey there, welcome to Cuppa! How can I help you?"

"At least we still got an A on the lab, eh?" Stiles says after a long moment of silence, bumping me lightly in the arm with a loosely curled fist, and, despite my irritation, I can't help cracking a smile. But I quickly regain my composure and steel my countenance into a stern expression.

"Shut it, Stilinski," I retort. "Now put your visor on and watch as I fill this order. We'll review afterward."

* * *

_A week and a half later…_

"LCD Soundsystem," says Stiles as he pops a cleansing tablet into the coffee brewer.

"You didn't forget to dump out the coffee grounds first, did you?" I ask him, watching Stiles out of the corner of my eye while I lay out freshly washed bakery platters in the display case for tomorrow morning.

It's only Stiles's fifth day of work, but he seems to be picking things up pretty quickly. Still, I can't help keeping an eye on him. As long as he's under my watch—well, Suze's and mine—I want to make sure he continues to do well. So that it reflects well upon my work performance, of course. Once Brian or one of the other managers deem him worthy to be promoted from trainee to associate he's on his own.

"I didn't," he insists, snapping the lid to the brewer shut and pressing a button to start the electronic cleaning process. "Now answer the question."

"Who're they?" Suze interjects, oblivious to the incredulous glare Stiles shoots at the back of her head as she's sweeping the floor in front of the counter.

"Suze, just…don't bother. There's really no hope for you. You're so pathetically musically uneducated."

"I _am not_," Suze protests. She stops sweeping and turns to match Stiles's glare with a hand on her cocked hip. They scowl at each other, and I start sorting silverware into their compartments, nonplussed.

"Don't they do that super depressing music video?" I ask. "The one where Kermit the Frog sings throughout New York City?"

"_New York, I Love You_," Stiles confirms. He's moved on to restocking plastic straws and cups. "Does that mean you like them?"

"I don't know any of their other stuff."

"And the disappointment continues. Next."

"Friendly Fires."

"Awesome. Favorite song?"

"_Skeleton Boy_," Suze chimes in. Stiles and I both look at her in mild surprise. "Does that meet your music curriculum, Stiles?" she adds, sticking her tongue out at the younger boy. Stiles quirks a brow and I laugh, shaking my head at their antics.

Stiles and I started this game on his first night. We normally have a set playlist that plays on repeat throughout the day, but when the café is closed to the public management lets us play whatever we want. We do it on a turn-based system (so there's less bitching about it, because, let's face it, you can't please everyone), and that night it was my turn. Naturally, the minute I'd plugged in my iPod and set it on shuffle, Stiles had something to say about it.

"Savage Garden, _really_?" he'd demanded, appalled.

"What's wrong with Savage Garden?" I'd wanted to know. "They were one of the best groups of the 90's."

"You aren't even old enough to remember the 90's."

"Neither are you, but you still know who they are."

"Not by choice."

"I _love_ this song!" Suze had declared, and then proceeded to sing (off key) and bop along to the lyrics of _I Want You _while bagging day-old pastries to go in the garbage.

The next song to come on had been _Heartbeats_ by The Knife.

"The Knife?" Stiles had asked after taking a look at my iPod's screen. "What the hell is _that_?"

"A brother-sister electronic band from Sweden," I'd explained.

"You have some weird taste in music, Zo."

"Don't call me that. And, please. I can only imagine what's on _your_ iPod."

"Only good stuff, of course."

"That's debatable."

And so it literally became just that—a debate. We go back and forth, firing off the names of bands and singers we like, constantly trying to outdo the other. It's kept us entertained for the past three night shifts that we've worked together, especially when Suze is there to join in on the fun. Or try to, at least. She knows hardly any of the people we talk about, but that doesn't stop her from trying. However, by our third round, I'm starting to feel like I'm in the same boat. Stiles knows some really weird, obscure bands I've never heard of before. (I mean, Deerhoof? Come on.)

Once we've finished cleaning and restocking our stations—namely behind the counter and out in the dining room—Shelly, the manager in charge that night, lets us go. We bid farewell to the remaining staff and head outside.

"See you guys!" Suze calls out to us with a wave, her blond ponytail bouncing in the warm night air as she skips off to her car. "Have a good night!"

Stiles and I echo our goodbyes.

"So I'll have that mix CD ready for you the next time we work together," Stiles promises, following me as I walk over to the saddleback bicycle rack mounted to the sidewalk just outside of Cuppa to retrieve my bike.

"I can hardly wait," I say, feigning indifference when, really, I kind of am looking forward to it.

I'm reluctant to admit it, but Stiles is growing on me. At school, I always thought he was a weird smartass with a severe case of word vomit that prevents him from having any proper social skills. Well, I still think he's a weird smartass, but I've come to realize that the case of word vomit may actually just be an innately inquisitive nature (likely inherited from his dad, who's the town sheriff). He's also really funny, once you learn not to take anything he says too seriously. And his fidgety, often clumsy mannerisms (a result of being diagnosed with ADHD, he says, which totally doesn't surprise me) are surprisingly endearing once you get used to them.

I still can't see that we have anything in common, other than our mutual enjoyment of criticizing each other's taste in music. But after three consecutive music debates, I have to admit I'm curious to see what he has to "school" me on.

"As you shouldn't," Stiles agrees, playing along. He lingers on the sidewalk and watches as I dig around in my purse for my keys so I can unlock my bike, drumming his fingers restlessly against his thigh. I can hear the contents of his pockets jingling around with each successive tap of his fingers. "Music education is very important, and yours is sorely lacking."

"_Whatever_." My fingers brush against the cool metal of my key chain, and I wrap my fingers around it, whipping it out of my purse with a flourish. "My education's just fine. It's yours that's too selective."

"Then, by all means, help me broaden the curriculum."

"You want me to make you a mix, too?" I've separated my bike from the saddleback rack now, and I'm refastening the U-lock to the bike frame.

"Sure." He shrugs, like he doesn't really care one way or the other if I do or not. "I mean, if you want."

"You're on." I walk my bike out into the street, preparing to leave. "Until next time, Stilinski."

"Bike safe, Zo." He turns and starts for his Jeep.

"Don't call me that!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you to those who took the time to read my story and leave reviews. I really appreciate your feedback. It especially pleases me to know you're enjoying Zoe's character so far, because I certainly enjoy writing her. Without further ado, here's the second chapter!

* * *

**CHAPTER o2**

**Stiles Stilinski  
**did you listen to it yet ! ! ? ?

June 19  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Zoe Gammond  
**God, chill. You just gave it to me yesterday. But  
yes. Helped me fall asleep last night.

June 20  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Stiles Stilinski  
**you fell ASLEEP ? ? ?

June 20  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Zoe Gammond  
**Hahaha, yeah. Like, two seconds into that  
Broken Bells song. Why would you start a mix  
with something so mellow? Although, to be fair,  
it was probably a bad idea on my part to start it  
right before bed.

Have you listened to MY mix yet?

June 20  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Stiles Stilinski  
**fool. broken bells is the shit. try again. when  
you're awake. and not yet, too afraid i'll find  
some savage garden on there

June 20  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Zoe Gammond  
**Nah, too soon for that. Figured I'd lure you  
into a false sense of security first and THEN go  
for the kill. Just wait, I'll make a Savage Garden  
lover out of you yet.

June 21  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Stiles Stilinski  
**dream on

June 21  
**- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

So…yeah. Stiles and I are now Facebook friends (and it turns out we actually have twenty-six mutual friends; go figure), which, as everyone knows, makes it super official. We've been messaging each other steadily for a few days, and I have to admit it actually _does_ feel like we've become at least somewhat friendly with each other, if nothing else.

We don't talk about just music anymore, though. In one particular message, Stiles tells me to get a life and get off the computer because I'm responding to his messages too frequently. When I ask what he's doing with his life that makes it so much better than mine, he tells me he's having a marathon viewing of _The Office_ on Netflix with Scott. (Just the first season; all seven seasons currently aired on the site are far too much to handle in one sitting.) To which I respond that that still involves sitting behind a screen, only he's doing it with a friend. And that, in turn, gets us on the topic of TV shows we like.

I tell him that if he likes _The Office_ he should check out _Parks and Recreation_, and Stiles somehow takes that as a sign that I want an invitation to come over and watch it at his house on Sunday (the soonest day where neither of us has to work). I say yes.

At 5:13pm on Sunday—just forty-seven minutes before I'm supposed to be at Stiles's house—I come to the sudden realization that I'm nervous.

I'm flitting about my room like a madwoman, trying to find a certain shirt I want to wear, when I abruptly force myself to stop and wonder _why_ I'm going to the trouble of choosing a special outfit to wear just to hang out with Stiles. And Scott. Because Scott's going to be there too, naturally (those two are literally joined at the hip, I swear).

Oh, my God. I think I may have a crush on Stiles. This revelation is news to me. I've never considered Stiles anything more than a classmate and, more recently, a co-worker until now. I haven't even fully wrapped my head around the possibility of our budding friendship.

I mean, I've always thought Stiles was cute, in a dorky sort of way. There's definitely a boyish charm about his looks, with those big, expressive brown eyes and that crooked smile of his. Only God knows what he's hiding under all those layers he typically likes to wear (at school, I mean; our Cuppa uniforms aren't even remotely flattering on anyone), but, at the very least, I've deduced that—regardless of whether it's regular or work attire—he doesn't have much of an ass.

His dry wit and frank manner of speaking, on the other hand, I feel are an acquired taste, which apparently I have because I'm not turned off by either one. His restless ADHD tendencies can be distracting, but they don't bother me like Suze's ceaseless gung-ho attitude can. I enjoy his company at work and our Facebook messages to each other do make me feel like we've established a more personal connection, but I still don't feel like I know him well enough to make an accurate decision.

I choose not to think about it for now. There's really no point. I mean, even if I _do_ have a crush on him, everyone knows he's head over heels for Lydia Martin. (Which I, personally, don't understand. Yes, she's beautiful, but she's not the nicest person I've ever met. Plus, everyone thinks she's crazy. If not certifiably, then at the very least deeply troubled.) It's actually really sad because Lydia is back with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Jackson Whittemore, and obviously has no interest in Stiles.

I finally find that shirt I was looking for—a V-necked gray tee with various multi-colored illustrations of toy cameras printed in a grid across the front—and pair it with my best jeans and black flip-flops. I leave my shoulder-length hair down and run a thin layer of styling mousse through it, just to keep the frizz at bay. I paint my eyelashes with black mascara and color my lips with lightly tinted chapstick; just a little frill to accentuate my otherwise unremarkable features, but not too much that it becomes an obvious effort. I debate a pair of earrings but ultimately decide against it because I feel like that's _definitely_ crossing the line of trying too hard.

I've got twenty-six minutes to spare by the time I deem myself ready and jog down the stairs, equipped with my purse and a thin black cardigan (just in case it cools off later tonight) over my arm. It only takes about ten minutes to drive to Stiles's house, according to Google Maps, and I'd rather show up a couple of minutes late than too early, so I wander into the kitchen to see what Mom's making for dinner.

"Don't you look nice," she observes the minute she sees me, smiling. She stands at the kitchen counter, busying herself with a cutting board of assorted vegetables she's chopping to make a salad with. I can smell a roasted chicken in the oven, and there's also a pot of garlic mashed potatoes on the stove.

Crap. If she notices I actually made an effort with my appearance then I know I've failed at subtlety.

"Too much?" I ask, self-consciously touching my hair. She shakes her head.

"Not at all. Who are you hanging out with again?" There's an undercurrent of suspicion in her voice.

"Just some friends," I reply, feigning nonchalance with a shrug of my shoulders. I walk over to the counter and snatch a slice of cucumber off the cutting board. "That new kid we hired at Cuppa and his friend."

"Oooh, a _boy_." Actually, it's two boys, but her eyes are positively _twinkling_, and I'm too busy fighting the urge to visibly cringe to correct her. She knows me too well. I don't even put this much effort into my appearance when I go to school, let alone when I hang out with friends. Very rarely. Like, on special occasions, or when there's a boy I like…

"It's not what you're thinking," I'm quick to try to dissuade her. I stuff the cucumber slice into my mouth just to keep from saying anything stupid.

"What am I thinking?" she asks. The way she grins lights up her entire face, and I can't help thinking how pretty she is, even when she's teasing me.

We look nothing alike, Mom (or Claire, as she's known to everyone else) and I. She's about average height, thin, with pale green eyes and straight, dirty blond hair. I'm just a few inches less than six feet, curvy in build, with dark brown, curly hair and hazel eyes. Like night and day, really. It's the same for my younger siblings. Actually, my little sister Hannah looks more like Dad (also known as Dave), with red hair and blue eyes. My baby brother Kevin bears a stronger resemblance to Mom.

See, the woman I call "Mom" is actually my stepmom, and the two children she shares with Dad are my half siblings. When I was two years old, my biological mother was killed in a car accident. I don't remember her at all, but, ironically, I'm reminded of her whenever I look in the mirror.

"I don't know, but whatever it is you're wrong," I insist. "It's just nice to wear something other than Cuppa garb. I'm taking advantage of it."

"Uh huh." She doesn't sound convinced. "Get your fingers out of my vegetables!" she snaps when I reach for another cucumber, smacking my wrist. "Do you want me to fix you a bowl?"

"Nah, it's okay. Stiles promised me there'd be pizza." She looks at me questioningly. "Stiles Stilinski," I clarify.

"Stilinski…" she trails off in consideration. "The sheriff's son?"

"That's the one," I confirm. "Something wrong?"

"No, no," she's quick to reassure me. "Just thinking of his dad. He's really had it rough these past several months."

You can say that again. Between all these bizarre, creepy incidents happening around town (murders, animal attacks, strange creature sightings) and then a job scare where Sheriff Stilinski lost his badge for a, thankfully, brief period of time… I'm surprised the man's still going strong, honestly.

Fortunately, it's been rather quiet lately, but people are still cautious, vigilant. The dust may have settled for now, but who knows when another gust of wind will sweep through, kicking it all up again? Like it or not, Beacon Hills just isn't the same sleepy town it used to be.

"I think it's good you've befriended his son," Mom continues, and I quickly grab another cucumber, taking advantage of her self-imposed distraction through sympathetic musings. "Zoe, you little shit!"

"Yeah, yeah," I say, laughing. I pop the cucumber into my mouth triumphantly. "Speaking of befriending, I won't be off to a very good start if I'm late."

"Good. Get out of my kitchen."

* * *

I pull up to the Stilinski residence in Dad's Honda Civic at 5:59pm exactly. (Go me!)

After locking the car, I jog up the short walkway leading to the front door of the house and ring the doorbell. A moment later the door opens and I'm greeted by Sheriff Stilinski.

I blink up at him in mild alarm. I've never spoken to a member of the law enforcement before, let alone a sheriff. Least of all a sheriff on his home property. It feels weird.

"Um, hi…" What do I call him? Sheriff Stilinski? Or is that only when he's on duty? Would he kick me off his doorstep if I called him Mr. Stilinski instead?

Before I can make up my mind, Sheriff Stilinski's lined face makes the transition from incertitude to recognition. "You must be Zoe," he says kindly, and his crooked smile reminds me of Stiles. "Please, come in."

The older man steps back, permitting me entrance to his home. After closing the door behind me, he turns back around and asks, "So, you work with Stiles at the coffee place?"

"Yes, sir. At Cuppa. We also go to school together."

"Oh yeah? Same year?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's good. Well, I hope Stiles isn't giving you too much trouble. In school or at work." His chuckle is warm, good-natured. I think I like him already.

"No more than teenage boys usually do, sir." Another chuckle.

"Please, enough with the 'sir'," he insists, patting me gently on the arm, as if to say, 'lighten up, no need to be so formal.' "Stiles is upstairs in his room. Take a left down the hall, it's the first door on the right."

"Okay, thanks."

I take the stairs two at a time, feeling more at ease now that I've met and (I think) made a good first impression with Stiles's dad. (Although I'm still not sure what to call him, dammit. I'm guessing Sheriff Stilinski is out of the question, since he didn't approve of me calling him 'sir'.) I can hear music even before I'm halfway up the stairs, and when I reach the second landing it's even louder. The door Mr. Stilinski indicated is partially open, yellow light spilling out of the room and onto the carpeted floor of the dim hallway.

I approach the door slowly, quietly, allowing myself time to listen to the music, trying to figure out what it is. A smile touches my lips when I recognize the song.

Since Stiles obviously didn't feel it imperative to close the door completely, I don't feel bad about letting myself in. The door emits a faint creak as I push it open further, but Stiles is so absorbed in what he's doing that he doesn't even notice. And what he's doing is…_grooving_.

Yes, grooving. To Duck Sauce's _Barbara Streisand_, no less. I would call it dancing, but that usually entails more enthusiastic body movement and/or fancy footwork. He's standing at a desk positioned against the right-hand wall, torso bent over the back of a computer chair, his attention focused on an open MacBook Pro. And he's got his head bopping, the hand not on the laptop's trackpad tapping out the beat against the desktop, and his hips are actually _swaying_.

Stiles Stilinski is totally shaking his ass at me and he has no idea.

It's so bizarre and unexpected that I can't help the bark of laughter that bursts from my throat. Stiles jumps, startled, and slams his laptop closed, killing the music. He stumbles, banging into the computer chair in his haste to whirl around and face me. The look on his face—wide-eyed, mouth gaping open in horror—only makes me laugh harder.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut, his thick brows coming together in a frown as bright red stains his cheeks and the tops of his ears. "What the hell, Zo?" he demands loudly, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at me indignantly. "Ever heard of knocking?"

I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down so that I can respond. "You mean that practice usually performed on closed doors?" I ask teasingly.

"And…mostly…closed doors," he argues feebly.

"That was partial, at best."

"_Whatever_."

We stare at each other for a long, awkward moment. Well, more awkward on his end than mine. I'm just basking in the tense vibes of Stiles's embarrassment.

"Good song, huh?" I ask, grinning. Stiles shrugs, feigning indifference.

"It's all right."

"Good enough to dance to?"

"Oh, that? That was nothing." He tries for casual, but I catch the minute flinch, his eyes crinkling at the corners, lips twitching in discomfort. His fingers are drumming a mile a minute in the crook of one elbow.

"I wouldn't say that. It was definitely _something_." I'm having way too much fun with this. Usually Stiles is the one busting my balls, but I _finally_ have something over him and it's awesome.

"Yeah, well… I'd like to see you do better," he says, eyes narrowed in challenge. He's calling my bluff, though. I can sense it.

"You wanna go?" I ask, stepping further into the room. "Have a dance off right now?" It's hilarious how quickly the red of his skin intensifies, and his eyebrows jump. He obviously didn't expect me to accept his challenge.

"No." Stiles clears his throat, abruptly changing the subject. "So, um, Scott's gonna be late. He had to pick his mom up from the hospital. Where she works," he adds quickly when I look at him worriedly. "As a nurse. Guess she got out a bit later than anticipated."

"Oh, okay," I say, relieved to hear that nothing is wrong. "That's nice of him."

"Yeah, Scott's a good guy…"

More tense silence. Stiles is looking at me funny, like he's trying to figure something out.

"You look different," he observes, and now it's my turn to feel uncomfortable. I fiddle with the hem of my t-shirt anxiously. "Did you cut your hair or something?"

"Or something." I roll my eyes. Everyone always has this reaction whenever I wear my hair differently. "I wore it down, that's all."

Stiles blinks. "Oh. Looks shorter."

"Nope."

"…Okay."

This is getting ridiculous. I clasp my hands behind my back, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet and looking around.

"So… This is the room of Stiles Stilinski."

His room looks like any other teenage boy's room. (Not that I've seen many; only a couple, actually.) But there are little nuances here and there that make it uniquely Stiles: various posters and artwork on the walls showcasing his interests, one of which appears to be random snowboarding anime-looking characters; lacrosse equipment piled in one corner of the room, next to his closet; a telescope pointed at the window beside his bed. It's actually a lot cleaner than I thought it would be, and I wonder if that's a normal habit or if he only cleaned because he's having company.

"Not what you expected?" he asks, surprisingly observant. I look at Stiles, smiling and shaking my head.

"Not really, no," I confess.

"What were you expecting?" he urges, sounding curious.

"I don't know…" I shrug my shoulders. "A mad scientist's laboratory? A hippie's psychedelic hideout? An anime…er, Comic-Con convention explosion?" Stiles quirks a brow, clearly amused.

"It's just Comic-Con. Not 'Comic-Con convention'," he corrects me, chuckling. "Are you trying to tell me you think of me as a hippie anime/comic nerd?"

"Well, maybe not a hippie," I concede. "I can't really picture you wearing tie-dye or having long hair."

"Gross." Stiles scrunches his nose in distaste. "Neither can I."

* * *

**A/N:** Ugh, the whole "Facebook conversation" looked way better, more Facebook-like in my Word doc, but, unfortunately, the nitpicky Doc Manager wouldn't let me replicate the visual. Oh well, you get the idea.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Just a heads-up—this chapter contains mild spoilers for the 2011 film _High Road _(featuring Dylan O'Brien. Eh, eh—see what I did there?). Which is a hilarious movie, by the way. If you haven't seen it already, I recommend checking it out.

* * *

**CHAPTER o3**

—**From—  
****Stiles  
****530-2217  
**—**Message—  
**Hows your curry tofu crap

—**Recipient—  
****Stiles  
****530-2217  
**—**Message—  
**Curried tofu salad. Good. Tell Jeff  
crostini is over baked. And don't  
text when at register. If Brian sees  
he'll kill you.

—**From—  
****Stiles  
****530-2217  
**—**Message—  
**So gross. Brian wont see me. Im  
the ninja of texting. Is your break  
over yet im booored

—**Recipient—  
****Stiles  
****530-2217  
**—**Message—  
**10 more minutes. Restock the  
cooler. Beverages look low.

—**From—  
****Stiles  
****530-2217  
**—**Message—  
**Jeff says you can kiss his ass  
and to bake the crostini yourself  
if you dont like it xD

Nine minutes later, I clock back in and take my place behind the counter. I'm tying my apron around my waist and watching Stiles as he rinses out a brew pitcher from a recently fulfilled order. His expression is unusually solemn, focused. Something is wrong.

"How's it going?" I ask casually. With the apron secured, I go over to the sink directly behind the register to wash my hands. Stiles doesn't look at me as he sets the now clean pitcher on the barista counter.

"Fine," he replies monotonously. I watch as he straightens out a stack of plastic coffee lids.

"Yeah?" I pause, debating the wisdom of pushing the matter further, but I can't resist. "You got quiet on me all of a sudden…"

Stiles shrugs, fiddling with the plastic wrappers encasing a bunch of bendy straws, but says nothing.

"You got caught and Brian took your phone away, didn't he?" I bite my bottom lip, attempting to hide my amusement. It's difficult.

Stiles plants both hands on the counter, sighing heavily. He gives me a look, sidelong and glaring, and I know I'm right. I open my mouth to say something, but Stiles interrupts me.

"_Don't_ say it," he hisses warningly.

"Say what?" I ask, trying for innocent. Stiles isn't convinced.

"You know what."

There's a long moment of tense silence.

"Don't worry, you'll get it back at the end of your shift," I try to reassure him.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles grumbles.

* * *

_Four weeks later…_

I'm at Stiles's house again.

Ever since the night I came over to watch _Parks and Recreation_ with him and Scott (which, by the way, they both loved. "Leslie Knope is like a female Michael Scott," Stiles had declared delightedly after sitting through four consecutive episodes of the first season), we've started hanging out quite a bit. Sometimes at his house, sometimes at mine. Once at Scott's.

Sometimes Scott joins us, sometimes he doesn't. Just last Thursday I'd invited Stiles to join a couple of my friends—Kelly and her boyfriend, Drew—and me at Mooney's Diner for some breakfast-for-dinner. He'd gorged himself on disgustingly sweet French toast stuffed with orange marmalade cream cheese, bananas and pecans, and drenched in real maple syrup, all the while keeping my friends laughing hysterically throughout the entire meal just with animated stories from work. He'd done alarmingly spot-on imitations of our co-workers (including me, much to my own chagrin), reenacted interactions with ornery customers, and overdramatized the antics hobos went to when they came in off the street near closing time to beg for food.

Even my family adores him. Mom thinks he's sweet and thoughtful, always offering to help with dinner or to clean up the few times he's joined us. Dad enjoys talking sports with him; they're both Mets fans, and Stiles is only too happy to regale Dad with the current state of Beacon Hills' lacrosse team without even being asked. Hannah and Kevin love playing games with him because he's just as competitive and energetic as they are. (Kevin's especially thrilled to have found a new person willing to play video games with him.)

It's kind of awesome. I think Stiles enjoys it a lot, too. Especially where it comes to spending time with my family. With his mother gone and being an only child, the only family Stiles has left is his dad. Whenever he comes over he gets to sample something he doesn't normally have, and I'm only too happy to let him.

But I digress. The point is, Stiles and I are spending time together, becoming more integrated into each other's lives. Had anyone asked me a couple of months ago if I could see myself befriending Stiles, I'd have laughed and told them no, of course not. But now…now it feels so natural I often find myself questioning how it is that we never became friends before this point.

We're sitting on the couch in his living room. Well, Stiles is sitting on the end and I'm curled up on the other two-thirds, my head resting on the arm opposite him. We're watching _High Road_, which is an improvised comedy about a rock musician turned pot dealer and his 16-year-old sidekick, whom he inadvertently kidnaps and takes across California, chased by the kid's dad and some weird guy who used to be a cop but now runs a gym? I don't know. It doesn't make much sense, but it's hilarious.

Or rather, it would be if Stiles didn't have restless leg syndrome. He's got one leg propped up on the coffee table positioned in front of the couch, and every time it starts jiggling it causes the table and whatever's on it to shake and rattle noisily. It's very distracting.

About three repetitions and thirty-five minutes into the movie I decide I can't take it anymore. I lift one of my legs, straightening it out, and drape it across the tops of his thighs. His leg jiggles only twice more before coming to a complete stop. I half expect Stiles to push my foot away, but he doesn't. I can feel his questioning eyes on me, but I pretend not to notice. After a moment his attention returns to the TV. I brace myself and wait—ten minutes, fifteen minutes… His leg remains still; I breathe a sigh of relief.

When the movie ends I'm smiling from both the good vibes the film left us with and the warm, almost drowsy contentment I feel. His couch is so cozy, and I like how my foot fits in his lap. Towards the end of the movie Stiles, never one to remain totally still for long, had started toying with the frayed hem of my jeans, pulling at the white threads and twisting them around his fingers as best he could. Every now and then his hand would brush against my bare ankle, and my skin would tingle in its wake.

I turn over a bit, mindful not to disturb my position too much, to look at Stiles. The credits are rolling and he's staring straight ahead, but from the vacant look in his eyes I know he's not really seeing anything.

"Stiles?" I inquire softly. He snaps to attention, turning his head to meet my gaze. His hand stops moving but his fingers are still holding my pant leg, knuckles grazing my ankle. There's an odd heaviness to his gaze, completely inappropriate for the type of movie we were watching. He should be smiling like I am—was. Now I'm frowning, confused and a little worried. "Did you like the movie?"

"Yeah," he replies just as softly, giving me a weak smile that's meant to reassure but falls just shy of being convincing. "It was good. Funny."

"That boy kind of reminds me of you," I say, attempting to lighten the mood and cheer him up. "Jimmy."

Stiles frowns, snorting, but I can tell the idea amuses him. "In what way? Like, I'm an attractive young man likely to be raped by creepy older men?"

"Yes," I say, rolling my eyes. "That's totally what I meant."

The humor between us fades too quickly, falling back into somber territory.

It's quiet for a long while. I want to ask him what's on his mind, but I'm afraid to. Stiles and I haven't really had any "deep" or emotional conversations before. From what I understand, guys aren't really big on that sort of talk, and I don't want to risk annoying him by trying to get him to open up about his feelings. If he wants to tell me, he will.

"Can I ask you a question?" he asks abruptly, taking me by surprise.

"Sure," I reply, nodding my head encouragingly. Stiles bites his bottom lip, hesitant, as if unsure how to begin.

"I've noticed that you…don't really look like your mom or your siblings…" It's not a question, more of an observation. But I accept it readily, already used to this sort of thing. Not many people know about my situation since it happened so long ago, but the question inevitably always comes up sooner or later, due to the unmistakable disparities between my family members and me.

"That's because she's not my birth mom," I inform him. "Hannah and Kevin are only my half siblings." Stiles nods, absorbing this information with good grace, but he doesn't appear to have his head wrapped around the entirety of the situation, so I explain it to him.

I tell him about my mother's death, how she was killed in a car accident when I was two. It wasn't her fault. Another car had pulled an illegal U-turn on the interstate, emerging from the median strip without warning. The driver had crashed straight into the driver's side of her car, T-boning it, and she was killed instantly. The other guy made it as far as the hospital, but in the end didn't make it out alive either. Dad met Claire two years after her death, they'd dated for nearly a full year before getting married, and she became my new mom. A year after their marriage, Mom had Hannah; then, three years later she had Kevin.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," Stiles says when I've finished, and he's the first person I've heard those words from and feel they truly mean it. I know about Stiles's mom, had heard about it from my parents after they'd read about her death in the newspaper. He's mentioned her a few times in passing, too.

I can't imagine the difference in our situations. We've both lost mothers, but he'd actually _known_ his. He'd had a chance to love her, to form tangible memories of her. His honest grief and longing for her would follow him to the end of his days, whereas mine had died before it even had a chance to be born.

"I would ask if you miss her," Stiles continues when I say nothing, "but I feel like that'd be a stupid question." I laugh, but there's no humor behind it. I know what he means. He feels compelled to say something, but what else is there?

"I think…" I begin slowly, choosing my words carefully. "I think I miss the idea of her. I mean…I was only two when she died, so of course I don't remember her. All I have are stories I've heard from my dad or other family members, and even those only paint an abstract picture of her—a feeling, more than an actual representation. Does that make sense?" Stiles nods, so I continue, "Everyone's memories are a bit different, adding more flecks of paint to an already indecipherable portrait, and I just…don't have anything of my own to make sense of it, you know?

"I have pictures, old clothes, pieces of jewelry, little knick-knacks of hers that Dad thought I'd want. But to me those are like…things you buy from a yard sale. You know they have a history but you don't know the people who owned them, so you can only formulate your own theories.

"I think that's what bothers me the most. Not knowing. I look in the mirror and see someone I don't know. Or I notice things about me that don't seem to have originated from anyone I know. Like, personality traits that don't make sense."

I realize with a start that I've never said any of this out loud before, not to anyone. My eyes are stinging a bit, but no tears will actually fall. I've never cried over my mother before, and I know I won't start now. It's hard to cry for someone you've—as far as you're concerned, at least—never met. Regardless, my heart feels heavy with an odd sort of sad longing I've never felt for anything else, like it normally does when I let myself think of her.

Stiles is watching me quietly, calmly and patiently. He's chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully and it's weird; he hasn't said anything, but I get the feeling he completely understands. It's sort of nice, but it also leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable.

There's a long pause before he seems to collect his thoughts, saying, "I kind of envy you."

"Envy _me_?" I ask, shocked and baffled to hear this. He nods, and he's back to pulling at the threads fraying from my jeans.

"I know it sounds weird, but I do. I'm not disregarding your loss at all, because I realize, regardless of when it happened, it still sucks. A lot. But at the same time…you've been spared the pain of losing someone you know, someone you love." He says all this quietly, cautiously, like he's afraid he'll offend me with his opinion, but he doesn't realize how accurate his observation is, how I was thinking that very thing only just moments before.

"I was just thinking a second ago that if I could trade places with you I would. To not remember my mom, to not know what it's like to miss her. You have no idea what it's like…to grow up with someone who's been around your entire life—someone who's raised you, taken care of you, loved you every step of the way. And then for all of that to just suddenly be taken away…

"You can't possibly imagine what it's like to come home after something like that. To walk into your house and feel like…this isn't home anymore. It feels alien, empty. Like, without that person… You don't belong; you don't feel complete. It's the most terrifying feeling ever.

"But then I remember how her laugh sounded. What her hugs felt like. How she used to dance in the kitchen with my dad to the radio. How she used to force him eat his vegetables, and…" He's not looking at me anymore. He's staring off into space, at nothing; maybe the ghost of his mother, remembering her, remembering everything he's been through. I can sort of picture these memories too; I've seen her picture around the house. She was pretty, with wavy dark hair and Stiles's big brown eyes and mole-dotted skin.

"I can't bear the idea of letting those memories go," he continues. "Because no matter how painful they are they also remind me of better, happier times. They remind me of who was responsible for making me into the person I am today. They make me appreciate who I still have in my life, make me want to cherish and take care of them."

I realize he's referring to his dad. Mr. Stilinski is the only parent he has left, the only real connection he has left to his mom. And suddenly the sting in my eyes intensifies, my vision blurs, and when I blink I feel moisture. I'm crying, but not for my mother or me. I'm crying for Stiles and his dad, for all the pain and suffering they've been through. I sit up on the couch, wanting to be closer to Stiles.

"I guess we've just experienced two different kinds of loss," Stiles concludes. His voice sounds strained, and, now that I'm sitting up, I can see that his eyes are red, glittering in the illumination of the television screen. I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. It's not what I want; I want to wrap my arms around him, to hold him tight, but I'm not sure the gesture would be welcome.

Stiles turns to look at me with a watery smile, and asks, "What was your mother's name?"

"Isabelle," I reply. "It's my middle name."

"Pretty." He sniffs, clearing his throat, and I get the sense that our little heart-to-heart is over.

Just then the front door opens, and I assume it's Mr. Stilinski. I quickly sit all the way up, sliding my feet off the couch and Stiles's lap and onto the floor. Stiles sits up straighter, smoothing out his clothes. The front door closes and we hear the sound of keys being thrown into the porcelain bowl they keep on a small table in the foyer, the heavy fall of Mr. Stilinski's work boots as he walks through the house.

"Stiles?" the older man calls out.

"In the living room," Stiles responds. He's wiping at his nose, his eyes. "Zo's here too."

I hastily wipe at my face too, trying to clear my expression of any lingering sadness before Mr. Stilinski enters the room.

"Hey guys," the older man greets us, smiling, but his smile quickly falters when his eyes fall upon the pair of us. "Everything okay?"

Stiles looks uncomfortable, at a loss of words, so I come to his aid, saying, "Yeah. Just finished watching a movie. It was kind of sad."

* * *

Later that evening, Stiles drives me home.

"Oh!" I exclaim, remembering something. Stiles jumps, gripping the steering wheel tight with white knuckles.

"Jesus, woman," he hisses, shooting me a sidelong glare. "Don't ever do that again."

"Sorry. Okay, so, I totally forgot to tell you this earlier. Remember my friend Kelly? The one you met at the diner with her boyfriend, Drew?" Stiles nods, so I continue, "Her parents are going out of town this weekend, and she's throwing a house party."

"Okay…" he says, not following. I roll my eyes, even though he's not looking at me.

"You're invited," I inform him.

"I am?" He sounds surprised, one dark brow arching curiously.

"Yes. Well, Kelly told me to invite whomever I wanted, but Drew put in a special request for you." Stiles grins, pleased to hear this. He and Drew had seemed to really hit it off at the diner. "So…will you come?"

He hesitates with his response. "Who's going to be there?"

I shrug. "I dunno—my friends, people from school. There's a Facebook invite. I can send it to you, if you want. I'll send it to Scott, too."

"Okay, cool." I smile, satisfied for the time being.

When we pull up in front of my house Stiles puts the Jeep in park and kills the engine. Normally, I'd just wave goodbye, hop out of his car and go straight into the house, but this time I wait, sensing he wants to say something. We sit for a long moment in silence before he starts talking.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he begins awkwardly, sounding embarrassed. "Didn't mean to get all 'Debbie Downer' on you. It's just… I guess the end of that movie got to me—"

"Hey, it's cool," I interrupt him, and I mean it. I really don't mind. In fact, I'm actually glad we had that conversation. I feel like we understand each other better, like we're a little bit closer now that we're fully aware of each other's situations. "Really, you don't need to explain."

"Okay." He looks relieved, and I'm glad for that, too. I'd kind of feared he might regret sharing as much with me as he had. I don't want him to regret it, to close himself off from me because of that regret. He clears his throat. "I also want to say thanks. For telling me about your mother, I mean. I know that's not always the easiest thing to do…"

"Actually, I think that was the easiest conversation I've ever had about it." He looks at me questioningly. "Because it was with you, I mean. You…you actually _get it_, you know?"

He smiles. It's a small, sad smile, but I know he understands. "Yeah. Same here."

I reach over to cover his hand with mine. He looks down at it, and my heart flips in my chest, anxious. I don't know if this is okay, but I feel like it's appropriate. I can't look at him then, instead focusing on the movement of my thumb brushing the side of his palm. His skin is warm, soft.

"Thanks for telling me about your mom, too," I say quietly, timidly. "And, um… You know, if you ever want to talk…about stuff. Not just this kind of stuff, I mean. Anything. I hope you know that you can."

His hand moves under mine, flipping over to wrap his fingers around mine, squeezing gently. It's a quick, fleeting gesture, and then he's pulling his hand out of mine. I force myself to look at him.

"Thanks," he says, and the smile on his face is honest, genuine. "Now go ahead, get inside. I'll see you later."

* * *

**A/N:** So...yeah. Considerably more somber tone than the previous two chapters had. I just have to say, I had a lot of fun writing out Zoe's and Stiles's conversation about their mothers. I found the dynamic between their two losses, and how it's effected their lives really interesting. I hope you guys do, too. Reviews are greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER o4**

_Three days later…_

"So…Stiles Stilinski, huh?"

It's the day of the party, and I'm at Kelly's house. I told my parents we were having a sleepover, that I was keeping her company while her parents are out of town. (Her older brother is also away, doing a summer abroad through his college in the Galapagos Islands for marine biology. Lucky bastard.) It's not a total lie. I am doing all those things; I just…failed to mention that there'd also be a party going on. Regardless, they bought it easily. Kelly is one of my best friends; we've known each other since, like, first grade.

Summers were always like this: We'd spend days at each other's houses, camping out in blanket forts constructed in the living room, munching on large bowls of buttery popcorn and doodling in our coloring books while watching Disney movies until our parents fell asleep. Then, once we were (fairly) certain it was safe to do so, we'd switch over to watching the "adult" movies on HBO or Showtime. Or we'd sneak out and go down to the little creek behind my house and sit on the rocks, dipping our toes in the chilly water, and just talk for hours. We'd more often than not wake up with a million and one bug bites the next morning, but it was worth it. We felt so rebellious, and it was so much fun.

I kind of miss those days. We don't have them nearly as much as we used to (granted, we gave up the blanket forts and watching Disney movies on a regular basis ages ago, but the coloring books still remain). Ever since we started high school, things have changed. Kelly got hooked into cheerleading and boys, and she just doesn't have as much time for me anymore, especially now that she has a boyfriend. But I don't mind (that much); I'm glad to see her happy. And the great thing about our friendship is when we are finally able to make time for each other, it's like none has passed between us at all.

"What about him?" I ask, wary but trying to play it cool. I know that tone; it's her I-know-something-you're-not-telling-me tone that always instantly puts me on edge.

We're in her bedroom and I'm rummaging through the overnight bag I'd brought with me, digging out the clothing options I'd picked out for the party. Being a girl, I naturally want Kelly to help me select the best option.

The party doesn't actually start for another few hours, and we still have to finish setting things up. Like, hiding all the breakable things that could easily be destroyed by a group of rowdy, drunken teenagers, putting out plastic cups and snacks, and swinging by the store to grab a few bags of ice for the coolers. Drew and his friends are coming by a bit early with a couple of kegs, and Kelly's got some friends on reserve with access to liquor. The Facebook invite specified that booze would be provided, but also encourages everyone to bring their own, if they can, so that there will be enough to go around.

"I don't know, I'm just surprised," Kelly says. She's lying across the end of her bed, head of long, wavy chestnut hair spilling over the edge of the mattress, watching me, upside down, as I lay out one outfit after the other for her perusal. "You never even talked to him at school, did you? Now you guys are, like, working together and hanging out all the time."

"Not _all_ the time," I protest. "It's different. Working together, we kind of _have_ to talk to each other. Whereas at school we didn't, so… I don't know." I shrug. "Jealous?"

"A little," she admits, winking. "I like him. He's cool. Weird…but cool."

I snort my agreement, having no other verbal response for that. Kelly's blue eyes look at me curiously.

"You like him, don't you?" she asks abruptly.

"Of course I do," I reply casually. "I wouldn't hang out with him if I didn't." Kelly rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

"No, dummy. I mean you _like_-like him." I know exactly what she meant; I just purposely chose to interpret it in the platonic sense.

"Uh, no. Not really…"

"C'mon, _Zo_. You can't lie to me. I see the way you look at him."

"God, not you too," I groan, referring to her use of my new nickname. Damn Stiles. First him, then Scott (that's how Stiles introduced me to him, actually), and now Kelly. Suze tried using it once, but the glare I gave her was enough to suppress any further attempts. Hell, even Mr. Stilinski calls me that. I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before my family eventually latches on to the trend, too.

"You don't complain when _Stiles_ calls you that," Kelly points out, smirking. I grab the skirt I'd just lain out on her bed, wad it up into a ball, and chuck it at her head. I'm immensely satisfied when it hits her square in the face, before bouncing off and landing on the floor.

"Yes, I do, believe me." I bend over to pick up the skirt and lay it back on the bed. "Or I did. But it's no use. He won't stop."

"I think it's cute."

"You would." I play her words back over in my head: _I see the way you look at him_. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me it is, because I know you. I don't think he knows. Boys are usually clueless about that sort of thing."

I don't have anything to say to that.

"Are you going to do anything about it?" Kelly asks.

"Like what?" I look at her incredulously.

"Well, first of all, we can start by making sure you look super hot at the party," she suggests, gesturing to the pile of clothes I left on her bed. I roll my eyes.

"Please. Last I knew he likes Lydia Martin." I'm still going off mostly rumor and personal observation on that. Stiles and I haven't and (hopefully) never will talk about our crushes. Not outright, anyway. She's come up in conversation a time or two, when we're talking about school or whatever, and the pure, unchecked reverence in his voice just when mentioning her name is evidence enough for me. "You remember Lydia, don't you?"

"Snooty little redhead from my Algebra 2 class? Yeah, I remember her. She's not all that."

"She was voted best smile in our yearbook two years in a row."

"Whatever. I promise, when I'm done with you Stiles will forget all about Lydia."

* * *

I don't think Kelly managed to make me prettier than Lydia, but I do have to admit I think she helped make me look pretty good.

I'm wearing a cap-sleeved, plum-colored blouse overlaid with matching lace. It has an attractive boat neckline and an open back crisscrossed with decorative bands, which are, thankfully, just thick enough that I can still get away with wearing a bra. Kelly offers to let me borrow her nipple pasties (which just goes to show how close we are as friends), but I decline. My tiny breasts need all the help they can get, and the only way for them to have any real presence is if I wear a padded push-up. I've paired the blouse with a charcoal knit mini skirt that, at first, I was reluctant to wear, but Kelly managed to convince me otherwise.

"You're ridiculous!" she'd said. "Do you not realize how awesome your legs are? I would kill for a pair of stems like that. Besides, you wouldn't have brought the skirt if you really didn't want to wear it."

She got me there, but I still put on some sheer black tights underneath, just to make myself feel better (also to distract from the fact that my legs are deathly pale), and a pair of shiny pewter flats. Kelly picked out a pair of my dangly earrings and a silver cuff bracelet for me to wear with it, thus deeming the outfit complete.

She then flat ironed my hair, adding about two inches to its natural length and making it look exceptionally smooth and shiny. All the while, I painted my eyes in smoky dark purples (Kelly claims I'm awesome at applying eye makeup. I think it's because I have a steady hand and I like to draw) and applied a pale peach gloss to my lips.

"There," she says once we're finished, steering me to stand in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom and look at my reflection. Over my shoulder, she looks quite pleased with herself. "If Stiles doesn't fall for you tonight, he's a blind dumbass."

I could kiss that girl, seriously. In fact, that's just what I do.

"Get off me, you weirdo," Kelly says, laughing good-humoredly as she shoves me away, wiping at her cheek.

* * *

It isn't until about thirty minutes after the party officially begins that people really start to steadily filter in. I recognize a lot of them. Mutual friends of Kelly's and mine, classmates I've traded few words with but otherwise never had the chance to get to know, people I recognize the faces of but for the life of me can't place names to.

I keep an eye out for Stiles. And Scott. (One will likely lead to the other.) Stiles told me they were coming together. That makes me giggle just a little bit. They're coming _together_. That's so…"bromance" of them.

Okay, so I _may _have had a shot of the rum Kelly and I swiped from her parents' liquor cabinet earlier. So sue me. Pre-gaming is a regular practice, so I'm told, and I may have needed a little liquid relaxant to help calm my excited nerves over seeing Stiles tonight.

I'm perched on the arm of a patio chair on Kelly's outdoor pool deck, surrounded by Kelly, Drew and a group of our friends, all of us idly chatting and laughing amongst each other. Kelly keeps giving me weirdly amused looks and poking me in the side. Twice, I nearly topple off the arm of the chair, but (thank God for my cat-like reflexes) I manage I catch my balance before face-planting into the pavement.

A friend of Drew's keeps leering at me. He's kind of hot, actually, in a jock sort of way, and I think his name is Sam, or Sean, or…something. I've met him before, but he's never given me the time of day until seeing me dressed like this, and I don't care. He's not the one whose attention I want to attract, so I ignore him. But when Sam/Sean gets up to stand next to me, and keeps "accidentally" bumping into me, I decide it's time that I go mingle.

I clutch my half-consumed plastic cup of…I think it's Coors, and stand up to wander around, heading through the double glass doors leading back into the house.

I hate big crowds. I suppose I should be happy that Kelly's party had such a positive turnout, but, honestly, as a collective whole crowds are rude and annoying. Ungainly bodies bumping into me, careless feet trampling over my toes, a random dude pinching my ass as I walk by… Wait a minute—that's not normal crowd behavior. I look over my shoulder to shoot the random dude a nasty look, and end up colliding into another person.

This person has hands that grip my upper arms, attempting to stop me, or steady me. I'm not sure which, but it doesn't matter because all they really accomplish is making me slosh my beer over the rim of its cup. Luckily, I don't spill any on my outfit. The other person isn't so fortunate, however. Beer splashes onto one of his shoes.

"Ah, crud," he mutters, crestfallen, at the same time I blurt an embarrassed apology of, "Oh God, I'm _so_ sorry."

I look up from the pair of men's black sneakers to see Stiles. My eyes widen in surprise. He looks _nice_. A little too businessy for the occasion, but I'm not about to make a fuss. He's wearing a blue pinstriped dress shirt with a navy satin tie, a gray suit jacket, and medium wash jeans. I never noticed it before, but blue looks incredible on him.

"Stiles!" I exclaim happily, thrilled to see him. Stiles is looking at me strangely, eyes jumping from my hair, to my outfit, and back again. My heart does a nervous little flip at the attention.

"Zo?" he all but shouts, brown eyes big and round. It's louder in here than it is outside on account of the DJ's "station" (really, all it is is someone's laptop set up on a square folding table) being in the living room. Speakers are positioned throughout the room and facing the open doors leading to the pool deck so the music can be heard outside, as well. "I hardly recognized you."

"Hey Zo," Scott says, grinning. He looks pretty snazzy too, standing next to Stiles in a much more casual ensemble of a fitted V-neck tee under an open, short-sleeved dress shirt, dark jeans, and sneakers.

"Hey! Glad you guys could make it," I say. "Did you just get here?"

"Yeah, sorry we're late. Had to wait on my DD, here." Stiles jerks a thumb in Scott's direction and Scott turns a glare on his friend.

"That's such bullshit, man. You were the one taking forever to get ready. Texting me pictures every two minutes, trying to figure out which tie went with what shirt." Stiles shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly flustered.

"It's a party," he argues. "You're supposed to dress up a little."

"A little? Stiles, I think you forgot one very important accessory to your outfit," I say teasingly, grinning. Stiles looks skeptical. "Your briefcase."

"She's so right, dude," Scott agrees, laughing. "You look like you're here on business."

"I hate you both," Stiles mutters darkly.

* * *

"Here you go," I say, handing Stiles a plastic cup of beer (after topping off what's left of mine; just to save myself from having to make another trip to the keg too soon, of course). Scott looks at me expectantly. "None for you, I'm afraid."

"Why not?" Stiles wonders, taking a sip of his beer. He grimaces at the taste, and I have to agree. But it's booze, so who the hell cares? Once you've had a couple of them the taste doesn't matter so much anymore, anyway.

"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of him being the DD?" The boys exchange a look, then focus their attention back on me.

"He can handle it, trust me," Stiles insists. I look at them doubtfully, but quickly relent. I'm not Scott's mother, so I won't pretend to be. (I'll just steal Scott's car keys from him later, if need be.)

"All right, but I'll have you know that's not very responsible DD behavior." I fill a cup for Scott and pass it to him with the sternest expression I can muster, which obviously isn't very stern, judging from the way Scott accepts his cup with a smile and a mock salute.

"I'll be good, scout's honor."

I lead them back outside to find Kelly and Drew. Kelly squeals upon seeing Stiles, jumping up from her chair and running over to throw her arms around him in a hug. (Clearly I'm not the only one feeling that shot.) Drew gets up too, albeit in a considerably more relaxed fashion than his girlfriend, and waits patiently for Kelly to detach herself from a stunned looking Stiles before greeting him. The two shake hands in that cool way only boys seem able to do, and Stiles introduces both him and Kelly to Scott.

Kelly's not really paying attention, though. She's too busy making excited, googily eyes at me, and I glare at her, silently trying to convey to her to knock it off. Yes, Stiles is here. That's great. Don't be a spazz about it and give me away. Thankfully, she gets the hint and stops.

Belatedly, I realize Scott is watching me, his dark head cocked at a curious angle. I take a big gulp of my beer and hold my cup in front of my face, hoping to hide the heat I can feel burning in my cheeks.

Once Drew finishes making sure Stiles and Scott know everyone else in our group, those of us still standing sit down. Kelly pushes her boyfriend into the patio chair we'd been sitting in and plops down on his lap, making room for our new guests. I squeeze onto the end of a bench next to our friend Chelsea, letting Stiles and Scott have the now vacant chaise lounge. Kelly kicks me in the shin, and when I turn to look at her questioningly, a little affronted at the undeserved treatment, she subtly inclines her head towards Stiles, who's already taken his place on the end of the chaise, next to Scott. I don't know what the hell she wants from me, so I just ignore her, and she lets out a huff of irritation, but otherwise lets it go.

"Nice place," Scott observes, looking around the pool deck. He's leaning forward, elbows propped on the tops of his thighs, arms crossed loosely between his knees. "This is your house, Kelly?"

Kelly instantly perks up, pleased with the praise. "Yep! The pool's new, actually. We just had it put in this past spring."

"Good timing," Stiles chimes in. "I swear, I think this is one of the hottest summers we've ever had."

"I know, right?"

Scott's about to say something else, but then he stops, mouth slightly parted, eyes distant as he looks at something beyond us. I watch the movement of his eyes for a second before turning around to look back at the house, curious to see what he sees.

Allison Argent. She's coming through the double glass doors, smiling and laughing at something Lydia, who's walking alongside her, has just said, and then there's Jackson, trailing behind them.

My heart sinks.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you sooo much for all the reviews/follows/favorites. You guys are awesomesauce.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER o5**

Damn Kelly.

This is _her_ fault. She invited Allison via Facebook. Allison, Kelly and I all took the same French class. Allison and I also had English together with Scott, and once you've had the pleasure of meeting sweet, adorable Allison you can't help but like her and want to befriend her. Even I'm guilty of that; we don't usually hang out outside of classes, but during school we've always been friendly to one another.

Allison is, surprisingly, good friends with Lydia, so it's only natural she invited her, too. And where would Lydia be without her ridiculously hot, star lacrosse jock boyfriend? It's such perfectly legitimate logic it makes me sick. Okay, more like annoy the crap out of me, but whatever. The point is, this sucks.

After the most painfully awkward eyes-meeting-across-the-room (er, pool deck) encounter _ever_, Scott and Stiles quickly lose most of their enthusiasm. Participation in conversation comes to a lull; they're both too busy whispering amongst themselves and stealing (not so) discreet glances at their love interests whenever they're visible. It's borderline stalkerish and creepy.

After about ten minutes of this, the boys down the last of their beers and excuse themselves, claiming to go get refills, and I can practically feel the collective sigh of relief from everyone else around me. Clearly, I'm not the only one who could sense the discomfort rolling off of them in thick, tangible waves.

The minute they're out of hearing range, Kelly whirls around to face me and demands in a hiss, "What the hell was _that_ about?"

I shrug helplessly, nearly as clueless as she is. Only one thing about this situation makes any sense to me. "Scott and Allison used to date," I explain quietly, leaning in close. "Remember? I'm guessing things didn't end well between them. As for Stiles and Lydia… I have no idea."

I _know_ Stiles has a crush on Lydia. But the way they looked at each other for that one split second—Stiles with utmost shock and heart-wrenching awe, and Lydia's responding sad, almost sympathetic gaze—I have to wonder if there's a history between them I don't know about. Does she know, I wonder? Of Stiles's infatuation with her, I mean.

"Oh _yeah_," Kelly says, eyes widening in revelation. "Shit, I totally forgot about that."

"Obviously," I respond with a roll of my eyes. Kelly bites her bottom lip, looking pensive.

"Maybe you should talk to him." At my questioning look, she clarifies, saying, "To Stiles, dummy. Duh."

"And say what, exactly? 'Dude, I noticed your pathetically hopeless crush on Lydia. Do you want to talk about it?'"

"No, _obviously_. But, geez… You guys are friends now. Go make sure he's okay. Offer him your shoulder to cry on." She pauses. "And make sure he can get a good look at your rear when you do it, 'cause that top does nothing for your mini muffins."

I hear Drew snort at the term "mini muffins". Kelly and I both give him a look, and Drew grins sheepishly, raising his hands in surrender.

"Sorry. She's right, though." His dark eyes do this weird shifty thing, glancing cautiously at his girlfriend. "Not that I noticed, or anything…"

Drew doesn't need to be concerned; Kelly is just pleased her boyfriend agrees with her. "See?"

"Um, thanks?" I say uncertainly, not sure whether to be flattered or offended. Is he trying to say I'm flat, or that I have a nice ass? I can't tell. To Kelly, I say, "And you're ridiculous, you know that? If you weren't my best friend, I wouldn't put up with half your shit."

"I know. I count my blessings everyday."

* * *

Despite Kelly's suggestion, I wait another twenty minutes before seeking out Stiles. Partly so I don't seem too eager, and partly because I'm starting to worry he and Scott may have ditched the party.

By now I'm definitely tipsy, after finishing off my one-point-fifth beer (God, I'm such a lightweight). My head feels light, my body numb and tingly, but my words don't slur when I bid adieu to Kelly and the others, and I'm able to get up from the bench without stumbling, so I take that as a good sign that I'm not yet shitfaced. Now that I'm in motion, however, I realize I have to pee, so I take a detour to the first floor bathroom, just off the kitchen. After relieving myself, I exit the bathroom and nearly collide into Stiles.

"Christ, Zo," Stiles gasps, startled. I smack him on the shoulder.

"Don't 'Christ' me," I snap, equally startled, my heart racing. "You're the one constantly appearing out of _nowhere_."

"Says the girl leaping out from behind bathroom doors," Stiles mutters, rolling his eyes while rubbing at his abused shoulder. "I've been waiting here for, like, three minutes."

He's got me there. I smile sheepishly and gesture towards the bathroom. "By all means…"

Stiles gives me a parting glare before closing himself in the bathroom and locking the door. I decide to go get myself another cup of beer while I wait for him.

A couple of minutes later, Stiles emerges from the bathroom, looking around. I suspect he's looking for me, so I walk back over to him, cup in hand. His eyes light up upon seeing me.

"You good?" I ask. Stiles nods. "Where's Scott?"

"Not sure." Stiles shrugs. "He was talking to our friend Isaac, last I saw him."

"Do you want to join him, or…?"

"Can we go outside?"

"Sure."

We make a pit stop to get him another round, as well, before heading outside. I don't take him back out onto the pool deck, though. I have a feeling he wants to get away from everyone for a while, so I lead him upstairs.

I take him through Kelly's bedroom, positive she won't mind, and stop in front of the double casement windows facing the backyard. I set my beer down to unlock the windows, pushing them open. I can feel Stiles's eyes on me as I stick my upper half through the opening before he catches on to what I'm doing and rushes forward, placing his hands on my waist and keeping me steady so I won't fall as I climb out onto the roof. My skin tingles where he touches me, even through the layers of my clothing, and I know a minute of disappointment when he releases me.

Stiles hands me my cup, then his, before coming out to join me. We sit side-by-side, me with my knees bent, legs curled up at my side, bracing my weight with a palm against the vinyl shingles, and Stiles sitting comfortably with his legs crossed Indian-style.

The cool air feels glorious on my heated skin. I close my eyes for a moment, basking in the evening breeze. I can hear Stiles shuffling around, and I open my eyes to look at him. He's turning about, to and fro, taking in the view we have from our vantage point. He looks like a little kid, totally in awe of everything he sees. It's adorable.

"This. Is. _Awesome_," he enthuses, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement. "I think I'll have to become better friends with Kelly, just so I can take advantage of her roof."

"Right?" I agree, smiling, my heart swelling with pride for choosing this spot. "It's the main reason I keep her around."

"Look at the sky," he says, tilting his head back. I do as instructed. It's breathtaking—inky black and dotted with thousands of brilliant white stars. "There's the Big and Little Dipper," he says, pointing out the constellations. "And Draco…" He points out another.

I admire them for a moment, then lower my head back to its rightful position. I feel a wave of dizziness at the movement, my body swaying forward slightly. Stiles catches the motion out of the corner of his eye and looks at me, reaching a hand out to grab my arm. The contrast between the cool air and his warm skin is intriguing, and I don't want it to stop.

"Whoa there, Nelly," he says, laughing. "Are you drunk already?"

"Maybe a little," I admit, sticking my tongue out at his amused face. "So, you wanna tell me about what happened earlier?" I ask randomly.

Stiles is quiet for a moment, relinquishing his hold on me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the way you and Scott got all weird when Lydia and Allison showed up. You don't need to explain for Scott, though. I already get that."

"Oh…" He sounds embarrassed, and, for a second, I feel guilty for asking. I shouldn't pry, but I really want to know. I want to know everything there is to know about him, even if I won't like it. He's quiet for a long while, reluctant, buying his time by rotating his cup ceaselessly between his fingers.

"You like her, don't you?" I ask, hoping to prompt him into conversation. This seems to do the trick.

"You picked up on that, huh?" I give him a look that clearly states, 'Duh.' He smiles wryly, one hand scratching at the back of his head—an uncomfortable gesture.

"Does she know?" He nods. "And she turned you down?" I ask carefully. Obviously she did, but I want him to confirm it.

"More or less. But it's…cool, you know?" He doesn't sound or even look like he's cool with it, but I won't point that out to him. "Bad timing, that's all. I'm willing to wait. She'll come around."

"What makes you think that?" Stiles grins, displaying that playful confidence I like about him so much.

"Because I'm me. What's not to like about me?"

"Good point," I agree, laughing. Stiles looks at me gratefully, assuming I'm only humoring him.

After a long moment of silence I ask, "What do you see in her? I mean, what makes her worth the wait?"

Stiles sighs. "I've known her since we were in elementary, and we've been through a lot together just this past year. I've gotten to know her better than most people are able to, and she's just… She's amazing. Gorgeous, of course, but that's only on the surface. She's so smart—like, genius smart. Quick witted. And she's a lot stronger than people give her credit for."

I have a feeling he's referring to the rumors that've been circulating regarding her sanity. Lydia seems to be doing better now that school's out for the summer, but no one's forgotten what she went through.

I decide not to push the subject; I've heard enough. I don't see all those things he's mentioned—namely where her personality and intelligence are concerned, but maybe it's like Stiles says. I haven't seen it because I don't know her like he does. Regardless, this information makes me feel incredibly hopeless, for I am none of those things. I feel a bit bad for Kelly, too, because she went to all this trouble to make me appealing to him. But even if he does find me attractive, that attraction would pale in comparison to what he feels for Lydia. Hell, just the look on his face when he's talking about her… I know I don't stand a chance against her.

"I hope she does," I say, even as I don't mean it, but I can't let him know I'm that selfish. I have to be supportive because I'm his friend.

* * *

I don't know how long we're out on Kelly's roof; it could be several minutes or over an hour. We just sit and talk about anything and nothing at all, pointing out partygoers and making fun of their drunken stupors for shits and giggles. Which is ironic, considering we're probably not much better. I try to be good, sipping slowly on the one beer I brought with me, but I don't bother to stop Stiles from slipping back into the house to get himself another round. Nor do I refuse him when returns with not one, but two cups, and passes one to me, claiming I have to have it because "drinking alone makes you an alcoholic."

After a while we realize we're both being terribly antisocial—at a _very_ social event, no less—and decide to head back to solid ground to mingle. I have Stiles climb through the window back into the house first. He does so clumsily, feet slipping on the shingles before he manages to catch himself, and I recover from a mini heart attack.

"If you fall," I say threateningly, "so help me, I _will_ murder you. If the fall doesn't kill you first."

Stiles just giggles in response—yes, _giggles_; drunken Stiles is a definite giggler—turning around and offering me his hand once he's safely inside. I take it, using it as an anchor while I scoot—carefully, oh-so-_carefully_, because, holy shit, we're on a fucking _roof_, and, in hindsight, this might've not been my wisest decision—on my butt across the roof. This prompts another fit of giggles from Stiles, and I glare at him.

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?" he asks, stepping back to give me room so I can stick my legs through the window first, then hop down onto the floor.

"Why don't _you_ try climbing through a window in a tight skirt and tell me if there's an easier way?" I retort, but with no real venom. He's still holding my hand, and it's hard to dreg up any real irritation when he's doing that.

"I'm good, thanks." He drops my hand, and I brush myself off. After closing and locking the windows, I lead him back downstairs.

Woo. It's turned into dance party central down here. And if there's one thing worse than crowds in general, it's crowds of dancing people. (There are far more casualties to be had when people decide it's time to boogie. _Especially_ when they're drunk.) I grab the length of Stiles's tie and use it to haul him along as I shove my way through the mass of writhing bodies. Kind of like a leash, I realize belatedly. The idea makes me giggle, but I refrain from sharing this with Stiles; I'm not sure he'd appreciate it like I do.

Stiles trips, laughs at his own clumsiness, and picks up the pace to keep up with me. He bumps into me at least twice, when I have to stop and strategically maneuver around a dancing couple (or orgy, depending). Finally, we make it outside, onto the pool deck, where it's a little less congested.

I turn to Stiles, just to see how he's faring, only to discover his attention is already elsewhere—gaze intent, brow slightly furrowed and lips parted. I follow his line of vision and come to find Lydia and Jackson, off to the left, against the gate surrounding the pool. They're dancing. Well, more like heavily making out, with their limbs coiled around each other, hips gyrating to the rhythm of the music.

I look back at Stiles, concerned. He presses his lips firmly together, eyes hardening, crinkling at the corners, and I _know_ that look. I know he's not okay, and I'm not okay with that. I think it's extremely shitty for Lydia to be here, flaunting her relationship with Jackson in front of Stiles like this. To be fair, I _do_ realize Lydia and Jackson have just as much right to be here as Stiles does, since they were all invited, albeit by separate people. I just don't give a shit.

Especially when fucking _Lydia_, as though sensing she's being watched, opens her eyes, looks at Stiles, fucking _holds_ his gaze, and keeps right on doing what she's doing without _any_ fucking regard for Stiles's feelings, which she is _perfectly_ fucking aware of. That fucking bitch whore. (Sorry, I tend to swear a lot more when I'm pissed and/or drunk. Right now, it's a good combination of both.) I want to hurt her, to make her regret ever saying no to Stiles…

Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. I wave my hand in front of Stiles's face, getting his attention.

"Don't move," I say, pointing down at the pavement beneath our feet, like I would command a dog to sit. Stiles looks at the ground, then back at me, confused, but I give him a pointed look, silently daring him to disobey, and then I throw myself back into the chaos that is Kelly's living room.

I find the DJ's station where Pat, a friend of Drew's, is doing his thing. "Do you take requests?" I ask. He nods. "Super. When this song's over, can you play Duck Sauce's _Barbara Streisand_?"

After receiving confirmation from Pat, I fight my way back to Stiles. I think he took me a little too seriously, because, I swear, he's exactly the same way I left him when I return to his side.

"What was that about?" he asks. I shake my head. Now is not the time to explain; I want to do this before my intoxicated mind has a chance to fully wrap around the situation and I chicken out. I grab his wrist, tug him with me as I take a few steps off to the side, so that we're not blocking the doors leading into the house.

"Dance with me." Stiles's eyes widen, his mouth falling open in surprise.

"Excuse me—what?" I move in closer to him, sliding the hand on his wrist up the length of his arm—and I'm pleasantly surprised when I feel actual muscle tone there; a quiet strength I hadn't noticed before—stopping at a firm shoulder. I feel Stiles stiffen, the deer-caught-in-headlights look on his face making me feel anxious as I reach up to wrap my other hand around the nape of his neck, fingers touching soft, warm skin, and pull his head close to mine. _Please, don't freak out_, I silently beg. _I'm doing this for you._

Standing this close, I have to tilt my head up a bit to meet his eyes. "Just go along with me on this, okay?" I murmur, gazing at him imploringly. Stiles licks his bottom lip, eyes flickering, searching mine, but he's not pulling back, nor is he pushing me away, and I take this as a good sign. Just then, the music changes.

"You didn't," he says disbelievingly, accusingly. I grin.

"Oh yes, I did. C'mon, Stilinski. I know you like to shake it to _Barbara Streisand_."

Red bleeds into Stiles's cheeks, but he rises to the challenge, frowning in determination as he circles one arm around to place a hand on my back, while the other grips the curve of my hip. He pulls me closer still, so that there's hardly any space left between us, and my body seizes up, my heart practically leaping up into my throat.

"Better?" he asks, much too smug for my liking. I don't dignify that question with a response and instead begin swaying my body to the music.

It's really awkward at first, although, oddly enough, _not_ because of Stiles. No offense to him, but, damn, I really didn't expect the boy to have a sense of rhythm. I mean, I know I saw him shaking his ass to this song in his room a while back, but… I don't know; it didn't really click then. He's so antsy and uncoordinated most of the time; it's hard to believe he could actually be lord of the dance.

I'm not usually this terrible of a dancer either, I swear. But I'm so freaking…flustered because, holy shit, Stiles is _right_ there, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell his cologne—a warm, kind of woodsy scent—mixed with the beer fumes on his breath from drinking (which isn't nearly as appealing as his cologne, let me tell you), and he's _touching_ me in a way he never has before. It's so fucking distracting, and I wish I'd considered this before attempting to execute this harebrained scheme of mine.

"Relax," Stiles suggests. "Just follow the beat."

"I'm trying," I reply stubbornly, blushing.

"You're the one who wanted to dance," he points out. I glower at him, and Stiles relents. "All right, all right. Just follow me."

He tries to guide me, applying pressure to either my back or my hip when he wants me to move in a certain direction. It helps, a little, but my timing is all wrong, and I quickly get frustrated. _What the fuck, Zo? Get it together._ (Oh God, I did _not_ just call myself Zo, did I?)

Suddenly, Stiles pulls me against his body, and my torso bumps into the hard plane of his chest. I gasp, startled, stumbling, and Stiles braces me with the hand on my hip. He holds me tight, and, when he moves, I have no choice but to move with him.

"There you go," he says, smiling encouragingly. I return his smile half-heartedly, trying _not_ to freak out over being pressed so intimately against him. Stiles's hand moves over my back, an unexpectedly soothing gesture, and I relax a bit.

We continue to dance, and I have to admit it is easier like this. After a while, I start to feel more comfortable, more confident.

"What the hell, Stiles?" I ask him. He looks at me questioningly. "Where did you learn to dance?" Stiles shrugs.

"My mom," he replies, but then his eyes widen, a horrified expression crossing his features. "Not like…_this_, but, uh… She taught me the basics." I smile, touched by this information. I can just imagine a younger, smaller Stiles dancing (non-dirtily) around the house with his mom. "The rest is natural talent," he adds, grinning. I snort, rolling my eyes.

It's another few minutes before I remember I'm supposed to be following a plan. As discreetly as I can manage, I glance over at where I know Lydia and Jackson to be, just for a split-second, before I return my attention to Stiles. I lean forward, until my mouth is but a breath from his ear, and murmur, "She's watching us."

I feel him tense, shoulders going stiff for a moment, before he relaxes once again. "Who…Lydia?" he asks, just as softly. He starts to turn his head, but I stop him with a hand on his jaw.

"Don't look." I lean back, meeting Stiles's eyes. I lick my lips, nervously, hoping for a positive response to what I'm about to suggest. "Let's give her a show, shall we?"

The music changes; I don't recognize the song, but it has a low, heavy rhythm.

Stiles still hasn't replied to my proposition, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. I move one leg forward, gently urging it between the two of his, and roll my hips. Stiles's grip on me tightens, reflexively, but then he seems to get with the program. He slides one hand down my back, following the curve of my spine, and my back arches, almost involuntarily. He presses in firmly so that my pelvis is flush against his, canting his own hips forward, reciprocating my motion, and I hope to hell he can't feel my responding shiver.

He takes his other hand off my hip, places it on my shoulder, trailing it along the length of my arm, and stops at my elbow. He pushes upward on it, and I get the hint, rearranging both arms so that they're looped about his neck, one hand curling over the top of his head, fingertips just grazing the fuzzy texture of his short hair. The temptation to run my palm over it is there, but I refrain, not wanting to go too far. _This isn't real_, I have to remind myself. _It's all for show._

His hand is now cupping the juncture between my neck and shoulder, fingers combing through my hair, moving it aside to touch bare skin, and I have to bury my face in the crook of his neck, because I don't want him to see me blush. Heat spreads through my body, nerves tingling with heightened sensitivity, my brain heady with a kind of intoxication I'm sure has nothing to do with alcohol, and—_oh_ _my God_, what have I gotten myself into?

I inhale a deep breath, attempting to get ahold of myself. Exhaling, I feel Stiles shiver, and he turns his head towards me, nosing at the hair falling over my ear, warm breath causing the strands to flutter against the side of my face, and that just throws me for a loop. Wait a minute—what was that?

Curiously, I lift my head slowly, barely grazing the tip of my nose over the skin of his neck. I stop at his ear, hesitating for only a second before lightly, boldly brushing my lips over the cartilage there, making sure to breathe through my mouth as I do so, and Stiles's next breath comes out in a distinct huff. His hands are suddenly in motion, the one higher on my back moving up to weave through my hair, twisting it around his fingers, while the other descends, cupping my ass in firm fingers, and I gasp.

"Shit, sorry," Stiles mutters in a low voice, embarrassed, immediately moving his ass-grabbing hand up to a more modest position on my waist. "I, uh, got a little carried away."

I tilt my head back to look at him, smiling reassuringly. "Makes this look more authentic," I say. Stiles is a little red in the face—further proof of his embarrassment—but he also looks relieved that I'm not offended, returning my smile with a crooked one of his own.

"Is she still watching?" he asks quietly. I turn my head to look, and I'm disappointed by what I see.

Lydia and Jackson are gone.

I want to lie, to try to keep him here like this for as long as possible, but I can't bring myself to do it.

"No."

* * *

**A/N:** I had _a lot_ of fun with this chapter (even though I think I could do better at writing intoxicated characters). Hope you all enjoyed it!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Sooo sorry for the long wait. I've caught up on all my pre-written chapters, and real life tends to get in the way of my fun, so from this point on updates may not come as frequently as they have in the past. Hopefully they won't take _that_ long again, though. Anyway, without further ado, I bring you more Ziles (love the idea of a couple name, by the way. Thank you for that, **Pink-Pencil-Girl303**)!

* * *

**CHAPTER o6**

I wake up the next morning to too much sunlight and an obnoxious Kelly bouncing repeatedly on the edge of the couch I'm _trying_ to sleep on. I'm so going to kill her.

"Time to get up!" she trills, far too chipper this early in the morning. Actually, judging from the amount of light streaming in through the windows, I know it can't be _that_ early, but still. How can she possibly be so awake and energetic after last night?

"What time is it?" I croak groggily, draping one arm over my eyes in an attempt to block out some of the light. It helps; my head hurts less when there isn't bright light stabbing into my eyes.

"Nine o' clock," she replies, poking me in the elbow. I lift my other arm and blindly try to swat her away. It doesn't work.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I demand, groaning. "How are you _not_ hung over?"

"Because I, being the smart girl that I am, drank plenty of water before passing out." She pokes me again, and I want to kick her. In fact, I would if it didn't require so much effort. "I'll get you some water and aspirin, but _only_ if you promise to rearrange your hung-over butt into an upright position so we can talk."

I raise the arm covering my eyes, just enough to glare at her. "You're a horrible friend. Evil, conniving, manipulative."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," she says, grinning. I nod my acquiescence, and Kelly jumps up from the couch, running into the kitchen to fulfill her promise.

Moments later, I'm sitting curled up on the end of Kelly's couch, popping two Advil and chugging a tall glass of iced water, while Kelly sits at the opposite end, knees bent up to her chest, hands on her kneecaps and chin resting on her overlapping fingers. She's still in her PJ's, her golden brown hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, but she still looks annoyingly presentable. I wish I could pull off morning looks like that. I imagine I must look a wreck—my hair a tangled mess, make-up smudged on my face. Hell, I'd barely managed to change into my own pajamas before crashing on the couch.

"All right, spill," Kelly demands impatiently. I consider refusing, but Kelly, as if anticipating that I'd be reluctant, has upped the ante by also throwing in a cup of coffee, made just the way I like it. It's sitting on the coffee table in front of me, seducing me with its café au lait, steamy-looking goodness. I lean forward and grab the mug, then sit back, holding the cup just beneath my nose, inhaling its fragrant yumminess and basking in its too-hot temperature. I'm stalling, and Kelly knows it.

"Don't you _dare_ hold out on me, Zo," she hisses, eyes narrowed. "I _saw_ you dirty dancing with Stiles." She can't maintain her irritation, bubbling excitement evident in her voice as she speaks. "What happened?"

I roll my eyes. "It wasn't _that_ dirty. Not any worse than what anyone else was doing."

"I'll grant you that, but he _did_ grab your ass." I wince. Had she been watching us the entire time? "Told you that skirt would be worth it," Kelly adds, grinning with smug satisfaction.

"It's not what you think," I insist, heat rushing to my face at the memory. Kelly arches an inquisitive brow.

"Then what was it?" I bite my bottom lip, drumming my fingernails against the ceramic mug. My coffee is still too hot to drink.

"I was helping him out." Kelly frowns, confused. I sigh. "We saw Lydia dancing and making out with Jackson, and I, um…sort of…suggested we, uh…" I trail off, feeling incredibly awkward having to explain all this. "Give them a show, I guess. It was all…pretend. It didn't…mean anything."

I feel a pang in my chest at the admission. This feeling isn't a new one. I remember having it last night, too, after Stiles and I stopped dancing. I'm pretty sure that's how I ended up with this hang over.

Kelly looks at me for a long time, expression blank for the most part, obviously trying to wrap her head around this information.

"You should've seen them, Kelly," I rush ahead to explain, needing her to understand. "It was gross. And I just…I don't know. Stiles looked so heartbroken, I…had to do something for him."

"So…you were doing Stiles a favor?" Her tone is hard, disbelieving. "By mashing up against him on a dance floor? Just _how_, might I ask, is that helping him?"

I tell her the whole situation in full detail. How Stiles revealed to me his feelings for Lydia on the roof, how we'd then come downstairs to see _that_, and Lydia had been a total bitch, disregarding Stiles's feelings for her as if they're nothing.

"I wanted her to see what she was missing," I conclude. "Make her jealous."

"Did it work?" she asks. I shrug, unable to give her a straight answer.

"I don't know. She definitely saw us dancing together, and after a while she and Jackson left. But I don't know if that was because of us or just because they wanted to. Stiles seems to think it did."

"Why?"

"Later on, I was hanging out with him, Scott and some people they knew in the kitchen. Lydia was just about to leave the party with Jackson and Allison, and on her way out she intentionally walked past Stiles. And she was all, '_Stiles_,' in that super snooty tone she likes to use sometimes. You know the one." Kelly nods, rolling her eyes. "And she literally shoved past him. Like, one of those aggressive shoulder bump things."

"_Ha_," Kelly cackles, pleased. "Good, serves her right." I nod, relieved that Kelly agrees. That relief is short-lived, however, when she glares at me. "_You_, on the other hand… While I'm all about putting Lydia in her place, I discourage such behavior in the future. That's just stupid, Zo. Especially when you and I know how you feel about Stiles. It's a dangerous game, and I don't want you getting yourself hurt."

"I know, I know."

* * *

I don't see or even speak to Stiles until Sunday, when we're both scheduled to work a closing shift at Cuppa, and I'm kind of glad for that. I've been reluctant to do either since the party, mostly because I'm afraid he'll be weirded out by all the bumping and grinding we did that night. He didn't seem to be at the party, but I'm not so sure that easiness will hold in the unforgiving light of sobriety.

When I get to work Stiles is already behind the counter, straightening up the barista station after a recently fulfilled order. (He was scheduled to start an hour before me, which is typical Cuppa procedure in order to cover the transition between midday and evening shifts. Whoever was barista before him—I think it was Mike—must've clocked out a while ago.) Suze is here too, manning the register. She brightens at the sight of me. "Yay! You're here, that means I get to leave."

I stick my tongue out at her, swiftly walking past the counter and to the back room to put my things away and grab an apron. Once I've got one on, I slip on my visor and head back out to the front. I glance at Stiles warily as I step behind the counter, unsure what to expect.

"Hey there, jitterbug," Stiles greets me playfully, smirking knowingly. The invisible fist I hadn't realized was clenched around my windpipe releases, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. "How was _your_ Saturday?"

Suze looks from Stiles, to me, then back again. "Jitterbug?" she asks confusedly. She clocks out of the register so I can take her place.

"Zo's new nickname," Stiles supplies, and I wince. He better not start calling me that. Zo's bad enough. "From this party we went to on Friday."

"Oh, that's right. You guys mentioned that," Suze says, her expression relaxing with understanding. She steps aside so I can take her place to clock in and assume command of the register.

"Don't you dare," I warn Stiles with a glare. "And it was fabulous, thanks for asking," I continue sarcastically. "Who doesn't enjoy spending their Saturday cleaning up the chaos left over from a house party?"

"Hey, I offered to help," Stiles reminds me. It's true. He'd thrown the offer out there as he and Scott were leaving for the night, suggesting they come back on Saturday to help with the clean-up, but I'd declined, figuring we'd have more than enough people between me, Kelly, Drew and his friends to get the job done.

"Not very adamantly," I say, just to give him shit. "I had to clean up…" I trail off, mindful of the customers milling about the café, "_sickness_ out of a bathtub," I finish quietly, but no less emphatically.

"Ew," Suze says, scrunching her nose in disgust.

"Was it yours?" he asks, grinning. I flip him the bird. Stiles chuckles.

"No, you ass. I wasn't _that_ drunk."

"Sounds like you two had fun this weekend," Suze says, winking. She reaches behind her and starts untying her apron. "You'll have to tell me more about it next time, 'cause I'm so out of here."

Talk of the party—or any talk that isn't work related, for that matter—is postponed for the time being as a batch of new customers wanders in, and Stiles and I are forced into professional mode.

A couple of hours later, the bell over the front door jingles, and in walks Allison. I instinctively look up mid-transaction with another customer, and clumsily spill all of their change on the counter.

"I'm so sorry," I apologize, hastily picking up the coins, even as the customer, a polite middle-aged man, dismisses my apology with a wave of his hand and a kind smile. He wanders off a short distance, waiting for Stiles to fill his order. Allison approaches the counter, looking surprised to see me. Even more so when she realizes Stiles is here, too. She looks back and forth between the two of us.

"Hi Allison," I greet her with a friendly smile. Stiles's head jerks up then, only just now acknowledging her presence.

"Oh…hey!" Stiles cries. It's a bit awkward, and I wonder if it's some weird by-association thing, what with Allison being his best friend's ex-girlfriend and all. She smiles at us, and I kind of hate her—just a little bit. She's dressed casually in jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of kickass boots I'd love to steal from her, her dark hair tumbling in attractively artless waves past her shoulders. I can see why Scott fell for her, and why it might've been devastating to lose her; she's so effortlessly beautiful.

Speaking of which, I wonder what happened between her and Scott at the party. After the weird eye-exchange thing, I'd kind of thought they'd try to avoid each other like the plague the entire night, but at some point I saw them talking to each other. I couldn't tell, at the time, whether it was a friendly conversation or not, and I've yet to ask Stiles about it.

"How's it going?" I ask. Allison laughs, and it's a dry sound.

"Good. All recovered from Friday. How 'bout you?"

"I'm doing all right. So, what brings you here?" Allison shrugs.

"I haven't been here in a while. Used to come here every so often, during the school year. You weren't working here then, were you? I don't remember seeing you."

"I started a few months before school got out. Stiles has only been here for...what—" I look to Stiles, "—a month and a half?"

"Give or take," he says, nodding in agreement. Allison hums in comprehension. There's a moment of silence, and then Allison purses her lips, looking curious.

"Small world, I guess," she says. "Must be fun working together, since you guys are…" she trails off, reaching up to tuck some hair behind her ear, "you know, friends."

"Um, yeah. You could say that," I agree, frowning. Hold up—did she just hesitate to call us friends? Why did she hesitate?

Later, after Allison leaves with her dirty chai latte and a croissant, Stiles comes over and nudges me in the arm with his elbow. "'_You could say that_'?" he repeats my previous words, eyebrows raised high in disbelief. I look at him confusedly.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles rolls his eyes.

"She obviously didn't mean friends as in _friends_-friends, you dope. And you may as well have confirmed her suspicions with that response." My eyes widen in surprise. Is _that_ what that pregnant pause was about? Wait, why would she jump to that conclusion? Did she see me with Stiles at the party?

"Seriously? How do you know?" Stiles looks at me like I'm stupid.

"I thought girls were supposed to be better at this stuff..." He sighs. "I don't know, it was just obvious."

"Shit," I curse, then remember my place, lowering my voice. "I mean—that's obviously not what I meant. I meant…you could say working together is fun…" I'm rambling, but I can't help it. I feel the need to explain myself, because, of course, in no way did I mean to mislead Allison. "Because, you know, it's _still_ work…which usually _isn't_ fun. Ugh, I don't know. It made sense in my head."

"No use worrying about it now," Stiles says, shrugging. "What's done is done."

Much later, after we close up for the night, Stiles sticks to his usual ritual of following me to the saddleback bicycle rack and watching as I unlatch my bike. It's kind of sweet, actually. He never leaves before me, always waiting until I'm peddling away on my bike before even heading for his Jeep.

"Um…" I begin uncertainly. I still feel bad over the whole miscommunication thing with Allison. "About earlier…"

"You still hung up on the Allison thing?" Stiles asks with a crooked smile, reading my mind. "I told you, don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. I really don't care what she thinks."

"But…Allison's friends with Lydia," I point out. "Aren't you worried what she might say to _her_?"

"Should I be? I mean, can it be any worse than what she saw at the party?" I cringe inwardly. Did he have to say 'worse'? "We weren't exactly being strictly 'friendly' then, either," he adds with a dry chuckle. "Besides, wasn't that the point?"

"Well, yeah," I admit sheepishly, staring with more intent at my bike than need be. I can feel heat blooming in my cheeks, and I don't want him to see how affected I (still) am by the memory of that little charade we pulled. "But I was a little drunk at the time…"

"A little?" he reiterates teasingly.

"I don't want to hear it, mister. You weren't any better."

"I was perfectly fine. Need I remind you who saved your drunken ass on the dance floor?"

Oh no, he didn't just go there. I look back up at him incredulously, embarrassment forgotten. "Speaking of asses, need I remind _you_ who drunkenly grabbed whose ass?"

"My hand slipped," he argues, but the hand scratching anxiously at the back of his neck belies his claim.

"Uh huh." I grin, complacent.

"All right, all right." He holds his hands up in surrender.

"Just saying…" I shrug, feigning innocence. He scowls at me, but represses further comment. Victory is sweet.

"_Anyway_. My point is, let Lydia think what she wants. Maybe thinking I'm no longer available will make her think twice about rejecting me." His eyes brighten at his own suggestion, like a light bulb going on in his brain. "Eh, eh—see? This can all be considered part of my master plan."

I roll my eyes. No other response to that seems appropriate.

* * *

A few days later, Stiles and I are standing in Video 2*C. He's managed to convince me to watch a horror flick with him, after a recent conversation in which he discovered I detested the genre.

"You can't hate horror movies," he'd scoffed, appalled. "Who hates horror movies?"

"_I_ do!" I'd insisted.

"How is it we've gone this long as friends without me knowing something as detrimental as this?" He'd sighed dramatically. "I don't think this friendship can continue."

"You never asked. I can't handle the creepiness, least of all the goriness. Especially those torture slasher-type movies. They're so gross."

"Not all horror movies are torture slasher-types. We'll watch _Thirteen Ghosts_, that's a good one to start you off with."

I only agreed on the condition that we get Chinese take-out and he promises not to laugh at me when I inevitably strangle one of his pillows during the movie. Kelly always makes fun of me for this habit. Stiles isn't the first to try to convert me into a horror lover (I'll always and forever be scarred by that one time Kelly made me watch the first _Final_ _Destination_), and anytime I watch even a remotely thrilling or suspenseful movie, I need to have a pillow with me. It's a coping mechanism.

We're standing in the horror section, and I'm making a last ditch attempt to weasel my way out of _Thirteen Ghosts_ with some action comedy instead.

"How about _21 Jump Street_?" I suggest hopefully, waving the DVD case in front of Stiles's face. "I heard this was pretty good. It's got that guy from _Superbad_."

"Jonah Hill," Stiles supplies, shoving the DVD away. "And no, we're getting _Thirteen Ghosts_." He scans the rows of DVDs on the shelf in front of us. "Is the 'thirteen' spelled numerically or with…letters?"

"How should I know? I've never seen it before." I wander off, defeated, to put _21 Jump Street_ back where I found it. A moment later I'm back at Stiles's side, pouting as he holds up the case for _Thirteen Ghosts_—actually spelled _Thir13en Ghosts_—waving it about triumphantly.

Just then, I hear the front door to the video store open, and I look beyond Stiles to see Lydia walk in. I elbow Stiles in the ribs, a bit rougher than I intended, eliciting a grunt from him.

"Lydia's here," I hiss urgently, nodding towards the front of the store. Stiles looks, and I know the instant Lydia sees us too, because his gaze holds, frozen, and his lips press together in a tense smile, head jerking once in a single nod.

A second later Stiles tears his gaze away from Lydia to look at me. "She's coming over here," he informs me.

I take a step toward him, leaning in close to whisper, "What should we do?"

Stiles rolls his lips between his teeth, eyes flitting back and forth, thinking. I see Lydia walking down the aisle, approaching our row of shelves. Impulsively, I reach forward and hook my arm around Stiles's, pulling him closer until I'm all but flush against the length of his side. He goes easily, too surprised to do much else, before he regains control of himself, clearing his throat.

Lydia approaches us briskly, confidently, head held high, long ginger curls bouncing with every step, observing us coolly. Her green eyes fall on our interlocked arms, and there's a falter in her strut, a slight hiccup, barely noticeable, but I catch it.

"Stiles," Lydia says by way of greeting, stopping just a few feet in front of us. Her tone is crisp, authoritative. She gives me a calculative, cursory once-over. "And…Stiles's friend," she adds, almost as an afterthought, her eyes flickering down to our linked arms pointedly.

Stiles is uncomfortable. I can feel it in his tense posture, the way his weight shifts from one foot to the other anxiously. I run my fingers over the bare skin of his forearm, forward and backward, in what I hope is a soothing motion, ruffling the soft dark hair there. This seems to do the trick, as Stiles gradually settles his weight evenly on both feet.

"Zoe," I supply, admittedly somewhat bitterly. "From our European History class, remember? We did that project on the Catholic Reformation together." Lydia lifts one graceful shoulder in a dismissive, uncaring shrug, and it makes me want to stomp on her tiny feet in their fashionable open-toe pumps. She opens her mouth to say something—something derisive, no doubt—but Stiles is quick to interrupt her.

"How's it going, Lydia?" Stiles asks as casually as he can manage, given the tension between the three of us.

"Fine. Just here to get a movie for Jackson and I to watch tonight," she replies smoothly, watching Stiles. I'm watching him too, out of the corner of my eye. He swallows thickly, but says nothing in reply.

"Same as us," I chime in, forcing a smile. "Right, Stiles?"

"Yep." He holds up the _Thir13en Ghosts_ DVD as proof. "Zo here's not a fan of horror. I'm trying to change that." He looks at me while saying this last bit, so he misses the way Lydia's eyes narrow at the use of my nickname. I think this is the first time I've ever enjoyed hearing him say it, just because of that.

"Well," she says, primly, "good luck with that."

"He'll need it," I agree. "Speaking of which, we should really get going." I turn to look at Stiles. "Stiles? Our take-out's probably getting cold in the Jeep. _So_ good to see you, Lydia."

Stiles stumbles a bit as I drag him, calling out a hasty goodbye to Lydia over his shoulder, towards the cash register.

* * *

"That was…weird," Stiles says the minute we pull out of the Video 2*C parking lot.

"You're telling me," I agree, absently fiddling with our newly rented DVD in my lap and trying to ignore the delicious aroma of the MSG-filled Chinese take-out wafting from the backseat. "You might want to consider switching out one of your classes for drama this year."

"Well, _excuse me_," he says defensively. He's not looking at me, but I can see him scowling at the road as he's driving. "I wasn't given any warning that you were going to throw yourself at me."

"How was I supposed to warn you?" I demand to know. "I didn't have time. Lydia was _right there_. And I didn't _throw_ myself at you."

We pull up behind a black pick-up at a red traffic light. Stiles takes this opportunity to avert his attention from the road to look at me.

"Why did you do that?" he asks, genuinely curious. I fight the urge to cringe, already having anticipated this question but nonetheless dreading it.

I don't really have a straight answer for him. I don't know why I did it. I just sort of panicked, and "throwing myself at him," as he calls it, was the first course of action that came to mind. I just… I didn't want to have an awkward confrontation with Lydia, which it undoubtedly would've been. Was, actually. It was still awkward, and I don't know if my reaction made it any better or worse than it could have been.

"Uh, well, you didn't give me any other options," I reply sheepishly. Why am _I_ being put on the spot? He didn't try to stop me, so doesn't that make him just as culpable? "And I just…I don't know, I freaked out. Lydia scares me."

"So, what…" He smirks, amused. "You were using me as a human shield?"

"Yes, let's go with that." I pause, thinking. The traffic light changes to green and we start moving again. "I don't see why you're complaining, anyway. Wouldn't this be going along with your 'master plan'?"

"I wasn't complaining," Stiles says. "I was just surprised, that's all. And what 'master plan'?"

"You don't remember? Just a few days ago, when Allison came into the café—"

"Oh, _that_?" Stiles interrupts, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at me incredulously. "That was… I mean, come on. You know there isn't really a master plan. I just roll with the punches, so to speak."

"Then wouldn't this be considered one of those punches?" I ask.

"Thrown by my own friend," he agrees dryly. "Thanks for that." I roll my eyes.

"Did you see the way she looked at me? She was totally sizing me up."

"What—like, checking out her competition?" Stiles asks with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, sounding hopeful. I have to snort at that. As if I'm any competition for her.

"Something like that, I guess," I respond, shrugging.

Stiles turns a corner, taking us out of downtown. We drive along in silence for a while, Stiles concentrating on driving and me staring out the passenger window, watching passing houses as we make our way through Stiles's neck of the neighborhood.

I try not to think about the whole video rental store incident, about how nice it was to stand so close to him, to feel the soft warmth of his skin as I held his arm. It only reminds me of the party, of dancing with Stiles—the way we touched, the way he made me feel, and how I wanted to make him feel the same way. Just thinking about it makes me feel warm, shameful. I'll never be able to do those things naturally, just because I want to. Because I'm his friend, and there are certain things you can't do as _just friends_. But if I wasn't just his friend, if I were "real" competition for Lydia...

_It's a dangerous game, and I don't want you getting yourself hurt_.

Kelly's words ring true in my mind, but they're quiet, distant. I know she's right, but, if I'm perfectly honest with myself, panic wasn't the _only_ provocation for throwing myself at Stiles. I know there were other ways the situation could've been handled, but I instinctively chose the most basic, primal one. And I don't regret it. In fact, I'd probably do it again, even if it means (masochistically) teasing myself with something I know I can't have, just to have that fleeting taste of it again.

Plus, I hadn't been lying about my observation to Stiles. Lydia really had seemed perturbed by my presence with him. If there were a chance I could really help Stiles get what he wants, wouldn't it be worth it? (Or, at the very least, justify my selfish actions?) I know Stiles had entertained the idea more or less out of jest, but I'm starting to suspect he might actually be onto something.

"What if…" I begin slowly, carefully. I can't look at Stiles as I speak, resolutely staring out the window. We're only a few blocks away from his house now. "What if it _were_ an actual competition?"

"Um…what?" Stiles asks, sounding confused. I inhale a deep breath, my heart racing.

"What if…Lydia thought she had actual competition?" Stiles is quiet for a long moment.

"You mean…_you_?" I wince, wounded at the blatant shock in his tone. Swallowing, I push aside my pride and continue.

"Why not?" I ask, turning to look at him at last. Stiles is frowning at the road.

"Wait, let me get this straight. Are you suggesting we…_date_," he lingers on the word like it's strange, foreign to him, "to make Lydia jealous?"

"Not _really_ date," I clarify. "Just…make it _look_ like we're dating."

More silence. Stiles slows the Jeep to a crawl as we approach his driveway, flipping on the turning signal, and then, "You can't be serious. "

"I am. I mean, seriously, why not?" I shrug, trying for a nonchalance I don't feel. Stiles's reluctance is making me question the wisdom of my idea, but it's too late to backtrack now. "We…sort of did it at the party. Why can't we do it again?"

"Uh, we danced together—drunkenly, I might add—at a party," Stiles points out, as if I need a reminder. Now in the driveway, he puts the Jeep in park, kills the engine, and turns to look at me. "That's hardly a commitment. You seriously want to act all…lovey-dovey around each other for an extended period of time?"

"It's not that I want to," I lie, returning Stiles's gaze intently. "Listen… You want Lydia, right?" He nods, slowly. "Okay, well, since your method of pursuit has been working _so_ well…" Stiles scowls at my obvious sarcasm. "I'm merely suggesting you try a different strategy, that's all."

"By pretending you're…my girlfriend." I can tell from the way he says it that he's trying the word out, testing it, trying to wrap his head around it. He doesn't look convinced. "I don't know…"

He twists around in the driver's seat, reaching into the back to retrieve our bag of take-out, then gets out of the Jeep. I snatch my purse off the floor beside my feet and scramble after Stiles.

"What've you got to lose, Stiles?" I ask, following him as he makes his way to the front door. "I mean, what other options do you have? Diligence and loyalty aren't working in your favor, so why not try this?" I watch as he fumbles with his key ring, attempting to get a hold of his house key single-handedly. "It's not like you'd _really_ be dating someone else. And it's perfect if it's me, because you wouldn't have to feel bad about using me, since I'm the one who suggested it and I know what I'm getting myself into."

"Do you?" he asks, frustrated. He's still struggling with the keys, too flustered and distracted over the conversation, so I take them from him. I easily pick out the right key and urge him to stand aside so I can unlock the door for him. He sighs, muttering a low thank-you before continuing, "I mean, really? Don't you think it'd be weird?"

"Maybe a little at first," I admit, my back to Stiles as I push the door open. I walk into the foyer, holding the door open for him as he enters behind me, shutting it once he's inside. "But I think if we're smart about this and lay down some ground rules, it'll be fine."

"Seems like you've put some thought into this," Stiles observes as he walks past me, heading towards the kitchen.

"Not really," I confess, trotting after him. And it's true, I really haven't. Had I, I probably would've talked myself out of it out of fear and insecurity; either that or gone to Kelly for advice, in which case she definitely would've made me see reason. "I'm kind of flying by the seat of my pants on this."

Stiles sets the brown paper bag down on the kitchen counter, then braces his hands on the edge of the countertop, taking a moment to collect himself. After a while, he whirls around and starts moving toward me. His eyes are dark, intense, his jaw set, lips pressed firmly together. My heart leaps into my throat, suddenly terrified, and it only just occurs to me that I might've made a huge mistake. That Stiles is really _not_ okay with this, that he's pissed off at me for even suggesting it.

I take a step back, then another, as he closes the distance between us, until my back is against the wall and I have nowhere else to go. Stiles is standing so close to me that I can see the tiny freckles dotting across his nose, the outer ring of burnt gold bleeding into the dark brown surrounding his pupils, every black follicle of his unnaturally long bottom lashes. I force myself to swallow, my mouth unexpectedly dry. Stiles's eyes drop, briefly, to my mouth, a pink tongue darts out to moisten his Cupid's bow lips, and—oh my God, what is he doing?

I jump at the sensation of long fingers curling, without warning, around my wrists. Stiles keeps one hand there, the other sliding up the length of my forearm, settling over my elbow, and I try to remain calm, unaffected, but it's _really_ fucking difficult. His thumb moves over the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist, and, dammit, I can't help a shiver.

"This isn't weird for you? At all?" he asks suddenly, voice soft, low. It takes a second for me to react, too distracted by his proximity and his touch. When my brain finally does manage to catch up to the situation, I yank my arms out of his hold and place my hands flat on his chest, shoving him back. Dickhead.

"It's pretty damn forward of you," I say, glowering. I'm mildly satisfied when he stumbles, barely managing to catch his footing before falling on his ass. "You could take me out on an actual date before pawing at me."

"That's not what this is?" Stiles asks, grinning. He gestures to the take-out sitting on the counter. "Dinner and a movie?"

"Doesn't count if I paid for my own dinner," I point out, crossing my arms over my chest. Stiles chuckles, waving his hand dismissively.

"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you really thought this through," he explains. "I mean, it's one thing to go around saying we're dating, but actually playing the part? We'd have to do stuff like this, you know. Get all touchy-feely with each other, because that's what people who date usually do."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil," I mutter, blushing. "I'm well aware of that. Did I not just throw myself at you in the video store in order to 'play the part'?"

"Touché." He pauses. "One last question… Why do you want to do this?"

"Because you're my friend," I reply instantly. It's the safest answer I can give that manages to hold some truth.

"This is above and beyond what a normal friend is willing to do for another," Stiles points out.

"Yeah, well, obviously I'm not a normal friend," I retort, attempting to make light of the situation. "Seriously, I just… After hearing you talk about her, seeing the way you look at her… I want to try to help you get what you want. I don't know if you've noticed, but you've become a really good friend to me, and I just…want to see you happy."

Stiles's lips quirk in a small, grateful smile. "You really think this could work?"

"I do. You saw what happened in the video store… What if we kept at it? Made it really convincing?"

He's quiet for a long moment, thinking. "Okay… Yeah, okay. Let's do it."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Ugh, I know. I'm the _worst_ person in the world for making you all wait as long as I have. But I hope there's enough Ziles fun-times and cuteness in this chapter to make up for it.

* * *

**CHAPTER o7**

_**OPERATION: CLAIM LYDIA MARTIN**_

I just feel the need to point out that this title is _not_ my idea. I personally find it stupid and chauvinistic—even if I'm not Lydia's biggest fan, she's still a person and not a piece of property to be claimed or owned—but, even after bringing this to Stiles's attention, he still insists there's no better name for it.

_**OBJECTIVE: To woo Lydia Martin through the act of deception—**_

"Don't write deception," Stiles interrupts me, making a grab for the pen I'm writing with. His hand bumps mine, and I inadvertently tear a jagged line across the page. I swat his hand away, irritated. "That sounds so…deceitful."

"Seriously?" Sighing, I tap the end of my pen against the tabletop impatiently. "Then what word would you rather use? Pretense? Ruse? Trickery?"

We're sitting on the couch in his living room, crowding together over a spiral-bound notebook on the coffee table, surrounded by open cartons of Chinese food. We've put off watching _Thir13en Ghosts_ for the time being in favor of writing out a…contract, of sorts. We both feel it's necessary, and we want to get it done and out of the way before Mr. Stilinski gets home. (That's just too much weirdness neither of us is prepared or even willing to explain, should we get caught.)

Stiles narrows his eyes at me, muttering, "You're hilarious, you know that?" He waves an egg roll at me, takes a bite out of it, then continues with his mouth full, "Go with pretense. Sounds less extreme."

"And you're disgusting." Stiles just grins, chewing noisily. I cross out 'deception' and continue writing.

—_**pretense, in which Zoe Gammond will pretend to be the girlfriend of Stiles Stilinski. **_

_**TERMS AND CONDITIONS: Zoe and Stilies will mutually pretend to be in a romantic relationship, but ONLY in the presence of Lydia or those associated with her. The pretense does not extend to the private lives of each individual; this includes in each other's homes and/or to their family members. **_

"Are you saying you'd be ashamed to introduce me to your parents as your boyfriend?" Stiles asks jokingly.

"Yeah…kinda. I mean, personally, I think I can do better," I play along. He doesn't need to know my parents, especially Mom, already adore him and not-so-secretly wish I _were_ dating him. I take a break from writing to twirl some lo mein onto my fork and take a bite. "Mmm, this is _really_ good."

"You'd be so lucky," he mutters with a mock glare, stabbing his fork into my food carton with more vigor than necessary. "Just for that, you have to give me some of your lo mein."

_**The duration of this contract will last no longer than four months, starting from today's date: 08/02/12 through 11/02/12. **_

We both agree that three months ought to be plenty of time to convince everyone we're a couple. The first of the four months is actually just to cover the rest of the summer. Neither of us really thinks we'll need it, but in the off chance we do have another run-in with Lydia, like we did today at the video store, then we'll be covered. The real work will officially begin when school starts near the end of August. And if we are unable to successfully achieve our goal by then, we see no reason to draw the plan out any longer than that.

_**Early termination of the contract is permissible in the event that (but not necessarily limited to): **_

_**1.) The goal of the contract is achieved before the given deadline. **_

_**2.) The contract becomes an issue that impedes the personal lives of each individual.**_

_**3.) The individuals become uncomfortable in their respective roles.**_

_**4.) The origin of the pretense is discovered, thus rendering the contract obsolete. **_

"And if you like a guy," Stiles interjects, taking me by surprise. I frown, my pen hovering over the page.

"W-What?" I ask.

"If you find a guy you like," he elaborates. "You'll want to break things off with me to be with him."

"Oh…right." I honestly hadn't considered that, since I've already found a guy I like… "I think that can safely fall under number three, though, don't you?"

_**RULES—for the duration of this contract, both parties agree to:**_

_**1.) NOT use pet names.**_

"No pet names whatsoever?" Stiles asks, feigning disappointment. "So, I can't call you, like, 'hun'? Or 'sweetie'?"

"God, no," I reply, miming the act of gagging. Stiles grins.

"What about 'baby cakes'?" He taps a finger to his chin. "Or…'sugar lumps'?"

"Sugar _lumps_?" I repeat, glowering. "What's being implied, here?"

"…Nothing."

_**2.) NEVER talk baby talk.**_

"Do I _look_ like the kind of girl who uses baby talk?" I demand to know. Stiles looks thoughtful.

"I dunno," he says, his voice pitched higher than usual, and he reaches over to pinch my cheek with his fingers. "Are you, my widdle bugga baby-boo?" he asks with exaggeratedly pursed lips that make him sound funny and look like a duck.

"Do that again and I _will_ dump what's left of this lo mein over your head."

"Exactly."

_**3.) NOT be clingy. (In addition to refraining from physical clinginess, each individual is to respect the other's personal space; this includes their separate schedules, friends, etc.)**_

_**4.) NOT abuse physical contact.**_

_**Examples of appropriate physical contact:**_

_**- Hugging**_

_**- Holding hands**_

_**- Arm around shoulders/waist**_

_**Examples of inappropriate physical contact:**_

_**- Anywhere near the chest, butt and groin regions**_

I underline 'butt' twice, just to mess with Stiles. He gives me a look of exasperation.

"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?" he asks. I shake my head.

"Um…" I begin awkwardly, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. I've been holding off, hoping Stiles would be the first to bring this up. But after a while it becomes apparent he's not going to, so I have no choice but to mention it myself. "What about…uh, kissing?"

"What about it?" I look away, not wanting him to see my discomfort.

"How are we going to handle it? I mean, most couples _do_ kiss, so…" He pauses, considering.

"I, uh…I guess we'll have to." He sounds reluctant, embarrassed, and my stomach does a nervous flip. _Really?_ I'd actually expected him to rule out kissing completely. Curiosity wins over my own shame, and I glance sidelong at Stiles to better read his reaction. He's staring fixedly at the notepad, scratching anxiously at the back of his neck. "I mean…it'd look weird if we never did…right?"

"A peck on the cheek, nothing more than that," I suggest, and Stiles relaxes almost instantly. He bounces on the couch cushions, hand falling back into his lap. "If people ask, we'll just claim to be one of those couples against PDA."

"I can handle that," he says, more at ease. I add kissing to the inappropriate list.

_**- Kissing—unless it's JUST a peck on the cheek**_

_**5.) Keep knowledge of this arrangement strictly to themselves. (Neither individual is permitted to reveal its nature to anyone else, unless it becomes absolutely necessary, in which case both parties must reach a mutual consent before going forward.)**_

"Well," Stiles declares. "I think that about sums it up."

"Yep," I agree, scanning through the contract one more time just to make sure we didn't leave anything out. It doesn't look very official (and not just because it's handwritten), not like how I imagine most contracts are supposed to, but whatever. It's solid documentation of our agreement. I sign my name at the bottom of the page, then pass the pen to Stiles so he can do the same.

"Should we, like, shake on it or something?" I raise my hand in offering to him. "Oh, wait—spit shake. Make it extra official."

He raises his hand to his mouth, about to make good on his promise, and I quickly retract mine, grimacing. "If you spit anywhere near me, I _will_ hurt you."

* * *

A week has passed since the initiation of _Operation: Claim Lydia Martin_ (OCLM for short, because I'm too lazy to keep using its full name), although you'd never guess that because we haven't actually had to act on it yet. Even though we'd both predicted this would be the case, I can't deny that I'm a little disappointed. Half of me is still freaking out and questioning my sanity for even proposing such a thing, while the other half is just eager to get the ball rolling.

It's only been a week, I keep reminding myself, which, really, is nothing. And I'm being unrealistic; just because Stiles and I are now a "couple" (God, it feels so weird to even _think_ that) doesn't mean I can expect Lydia to start randomly showing up wherever we go. I mean, with the exception of the party and the video store, we've seen neither hide nor hair of her all summer. I'm just feeling anxious, that's all.

It would help it I could talk to someone about this. I mean, this is kind of huge, much too big to keep to myself, and it kills me not to even be able to confide in my best friend. Although, honestly, even if I were allowed to, I'm not sure I would, simply because I know Kelly would kill me if she knew.

I'm in my room, sitting on my bed across from my little sister and playing a game of Uno with her while I wait for Stiles to come pick me up. School starts in nearly two weeks, and both Stiles and I have decided it'll be more fun to shop for supplies together than with our parents.

"Why can't I come too?" Hannah asks me for what has to be the third time since we started this game, ten minutes ago. She places a blue Draw Two on top of my blue six. I purse my lips, sulking as I draw two more cards and add them to my already overflowing hand.

"We've been over this," I reply, putting down a blue Skip, then a blue seven. Hannah shuffles the cards in her hands, planning her next move. "Mom's taking you and Kev this weekend."

"That's so lame," Hannah complains, throwing down a Wild card and changing the color to yellow. "I'd rather go with you guys."

"Well, when you have your own money, you can," I try to explain as patiently as possible, adding a yellow three to the pile.

"You know Mom would give you the money for my stuff," Hannah points out. I sigh exasperatedly, said patience quickly wearing thin.

"If I let you come, then I'll have to invite Kev, too. And that's not my call to make, since Stiles is the one driving."

"I'll ask him when he gets here."

"No, you won't."

"Why _not_?" Hannah whines, flinging her next card down and completely missing the pile. Her blue eyes scrutinize me intently as I pick it up and place it where it belongs. "Is this, like, a date or something?"

"Yeah, because nothing screams romance like notebook paper and pencils," I retort dryly, rolling my eyes. Hannah scowls, clearly inappreciative of my sarcasm.

"Don't be like that, Hannah-Banana," I add cajolingly, reaching out to pat her red head. Hannah leans back, slapping my hand away. She hates it when I treat her like a kid, because, naturally, in her mind being twelve is practically an adult.

Just then, the doorbell sounds.

"To be continued," I declare, abandoning my cards on the mattress. Hannah follows suit, eagerly tailing closely behind me as I get up from the bed and walk out of my room.

"ZOE! STILES IS HERE!" Kevin, who's beaten me to the front door, hollers as I'm heading down the stairs. He's all but thrown himself against the door, his face smashed up against the oval fiberglass window cut into the wood, arms curled around his head, hands pressed flat against the wooden surface. Through the window, I can make out a blurry figure standing on the other side of the door, bent slightly at the waist and waving at Kevin.

"Subtlety is so _not_ one of your strongest points, Kev," I say as I reach the bottom step, shaking my head with a fond smile. Coming up behind Kevin, I place my hand on the nine-year-old's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"What does that mean?" he asks, turning his head to look up at me. The tip of his nose is red from being pressed against the glass.

"It means you're loud and obnoxious," I say teasingly, tweaking his nose. Kevin's whole face scrunches up, green eyes disappearing behind tightly clenched eyelids. I urge Kevin to move aside so I can open the door for Stiles.

"Hey, little man!" Stiles exclaims the minute I open the door, holding his hand out, palm facing up for a high-five. Kevin lunges forward, eagerly smacking Stiles's hand with his own. A second later Hannah is shoving me out of the way and into the wall of the foyer so she can get to Stiles.

"Hey Stiles," she greets him, and I can't dreg up a single ounce of resentment when she doesn't flinch away from Stiles as he reaches out to ruffle her long hair. On the contrary, my heart instantly melts into a warm puddle of goo. He's so good to my siblings. Not even Kelly, who's been in my life forever, has as much patience with them as he does.

"Hello Stiles!" I hear Mom's voice call from the kitchen. A second later she pokes her head around the wall to peer down the hall.

"Hey Claire," Stiles returns, smiling warmly at Mom. "Dave still at work?"

"Yes," she says, coming out to join us, "but I'll be sure to tell him you said hello."

"Do _I_ get a hello?" I interject, crossing my arms over my chest and feigning annoyance. Stiles grins.

"Hey Zo," he says. "Ready to go?"

"You're not staying?" Kevin asks, disappointed. "But I just unlocked a new world in _Mario Galaxy_! It's so cool. You've got to see it."

"Next time, dude," Stiles assures him. "I promise. Zo and I are doing boring girly stuff today." Kevin looks at him, clueless. "_Shopping_," he hisses dramatically, like it's something horrible and nasty.

Hannah opens her mouth to say something, but I'm quick to intercept her, fearful she really will ask Stiles if she can tag along and he'll say it's okay. "All right, let's get a move on. I'll be back later."

We bid farewell to my family and start heading for Stiles's Jeep parked on the street in front of my house. As we approach it, I notice there's someone sitting in the backseat—Scott.

Alarmed, I look at Stiles, but he won't meet my gaze. What's going on? Why is Scott joining us? Did Stiles tell him we're "dating" already?

Heart racing, I open the passenger side door and slip inside. Twisting around in my seat, I look over the back of the chair and force a smile, hoping I don't look as nervous as I feel. "Hey Scott," I greet him, internally cringing when my voice cracks on his name. "Stiles didn't tell me you were coming with us…"

Scott grins crookedly, looking from me, to Stiles as he crawls into the driver's seat, then back again. "Yeah, it was kind of a last minute decision," he replies smoothly, brown eyes gleaming with unbridled mirth.

I look at Stiles again, but evidently it requires every ounce ofhis focus to buckle a damn seatbelt and start the Jeep's engine. What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm _so_ not prepared for this. This isn't Lydia; Scott knows me, knows what my relationship with Stiles has truly been up until this point. I can't be expected to improvise under this kind of pressure!

"Relax," Scott says placatingly. "I know."

"You know what?" I return my attention to Scott, narrowing my eyes at him suspiciously.

"About the whole…" he pauses, gesturing vaguely with his hands as he seeks the right words, "fake girlfriend-boyfriend thing."

"You told him?!" I demand loudly, incredulously, jerking my head back to glare at Stiles (and nearly giving myself whiplash in the process). He cringes at my volume, but still refuses to look at me as he pulls away from the curb and starts driving down the road. "I thought we agreed _not_ to tell anyone unless we approved it with each other first!"

"I didn't!" Stiles retorts defensively, but he's tense, shoulders hunched in an almost chastened posture, which belies his contention. "He guessed."

"Yeah, okay," I mutter doubtfully as I settle back into a forward-facing position in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. I don't want to look at either boy anymore. Behind me, I hear Scott huff indignantly.

"Should I be offended by that?" he asks. "And Stiles isn't entirely lying."

"'Entirely'?" I echo, ignoring his question. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He told me you guys were dating," Scott explains. "I laughed and said I didn't believe him."

I roll my eyes. "I can imagine just how hard he tried to convince you otherwise, too."

"You can't lie to Scott," Stiles claims, then seems to think better of what he's just said. "_I_ can't lie to Scott," he amends. "It's nearly impossible to…anymore." He mumbles the latter, somewhat bitterly, but I'm too irritated to think much about it.

"That's all terribly sweet, how loyal your bromance is for each other. But, you know, I, for one, have managed to resist telling Kelly." I glare out the windshield—okay, more like pout—watching the oncoming traffic as we head downtown. Silence settles over us, neither boy having anything else to say on the matter.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask after a while, averting my attention from the window to look at Stiles.

"I knew you wouldn't take it well," he admits hesitantly, gnawing on his bottom lip. He takes his eyes off the road for a second to meet my gaze—_finally_—and I can see that he's sincerely apologetic, which melts my ire just a bit. "And I wanted to prolong facing your wrath for as long as possible."

"So, you decided _now_ would be a good time to tell me? By ambushing me with Scott?"

"No," Scott speaks up on Stiles's behalf. "This wasn't an ambush. It really was kind of a last minute thing. See, we came up with a plan…"

"What plan?" I ask, turning to look at Scott. He shrugs.

"Well, actually, Stiles came up with the plan."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"We're going to practice," Stiles blurts out. "Being a couple. And Scott's going to referee."

* * *

I don't like this plan.

Although I have to admit it makes sense. As Stiles explains to me, once I've calmed down from my initial shock, in order for OCLM to work we can't have one of us freaking out and clamming up when the time comes to act, like I did with Scott. No one will believe that. We have to get used to being around each other as a couple, and what better way to do that than with practice?

The part I really don't like is having Scott as the referee. No offense to him—I mean, I'd likely feel the same even if Kelly were to referee instead. It just makes me uncomfortable, knowing he's going to be inspecting every move and reaction I make, but Stiles thinks that this is especially important. He doesn't trust us to be good enough judges ourselves, that we'll need an outsider's perspective to tell us whether we're being truly convincing or not.

There's a Target across the street from the Beacon Hills Mall; that's where we're going to be doing our shopping. Stiles finds an empty space to park the Jeep in the crowded lot and kills the engine. I hop out, then pull the lever on the bottom of the chair to fold the top forward so Scott can climb out.

Stiles lingers at the front of his Jeep. When I walk over to meet him, he holds his hand out to me in offering, one corner of his mouth quirked in a playfully crooked smile. "Ready?"

I hesitate, looking at his hand, then back at his face. Slowly, I slip my hand in his. His palm is wide, warm, his grip gentle yet firm, as his long fingers thread through mine, and my skin tingles with pleasant sensation.

"Yeah," I reply. Fingers tightening around mine in a brief, reassuring squeeze, Stiles starts heading towards the store entrance. I walk alongside him, Scott bringing up the rear.

A moment later Scott says, "Walk closer together. You two look more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Dude, that shit stops being okay when you're, like, seven," Stiles throws back over his shoulder, and I laugh, seeing his point. But I'm pleased when he, nonetheless, moves a little closer to me and continues walking.

* * *

"So, what's your story?" Scott asks as we wander down the paper supplies aisle inside Target. He walks ahead of us, pushing a shopping cart that we've already begun filling with supplies.

"You mean, like, how we met?" I ask, seeking clarification. Stiles hasn't let go of my hand since we left the parking lot, and I'm far from complaining. His arm swings back and forth as we walk, an idle, carefree motion, and it's encouraging for me to see that Stiles seems comfortable with this so far.

"Yeah," Scott says, stopping to consider a selection of spiral-bound notebooks. "Should people ask. Like, Allison and I didn't hit it off until the night she came into the vet with that wounded dog."

I'm kind of surprised how at ease Scott is talking about her. Stiles told me that their most recent break-up wasn't mutual—evidently they've been on again, off again this entire past school year—and Scott didn't take it well. Stiles won't tell me why—something about how it's not his place—but I get the sense that there's a lot of heavy baggage they've yet to work through. However, according to gossip (see: Stiles's big mouth), it turns out the conversation I'd witnessed between them at the party had, in fact, been a friendly one. They're by no means back together, of course—hardly even friends, at that—but they're speaking to each other, which I guess is a good sign.

"Um," Stiles begins, looking to me, dark eyes narrowed in consideration. His fingers drum rapidly against the back of my hand with the speed of his thoughts. "Well, obviously we go to school together. But I guess we should say work?"

"Yeah," I agree. "Let's stick with honesty. No need to complicate things by fabricating some bullshit romantic story or whatever."

"Is that what our romance is to you, Zo?" Stiles asks, feigning a wounded expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout. "Bullshit?"

"Of course not," I coo in return, leaning in and wrapping my free hand around his forearm. "My feelings for you are strong and true."

"Gag me," Scott interjects, nose scrunched in obvious disgust. He tosses two 3-subject notebooks into the cart and continues walking. "No need to lay it on _that_ thick."

I spot packets of loose-leaf paper on a nearby shelf and, reluctantly, separate myself from Stiles to grab a few.

"Grab me some too, will you, babe?" Stiles asks, grinning when I look back at him over my shoulder with a scowl. "College ruled."

"Only if you pick me up some tab dividers, _honey_," I throw back with saccharine sweetness. Scott has stopped with the cart again and is watching us both with confusion. "I don't like pet names," I explain to him.

"What was your pet name for Allison?" Stiles asks, wandering ahead in search of the tab dividers I'd asked him for.

"Alley Cat," Scott responds, and I roll my eyes. He takes it in stride, smirking at my obvious distaste. "Why don't you like them?"

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. I toss four packets of loose-leaf paper into the shopping cart, standing beside Scott and waiting for Stiles to return with the dividers. "I just don't. I don't really see a point to them, other than to be all lame and cutesy."

"I thought of a really good one for you, actually," Stiles calls from the opposite end of the aisle. He's knelt on the floor, facing the row of shelves to his left. "Ziggy… Do you want clear or multi-colored?"

"_Ziggy_?" I repeat, aghast. Scott chuckles. "What the hell is that? Doesn't matter. Just get the kind I can write on."

"One of Bob Marley's sons," Stiles replies. He grabs two packs of dividers and starts heading back towards us. "Or a play on your initials, depending on how you want to look at it. We could shorten it to Zig. I kind of like that better. That way I can call you 'my little zig-zag'."

Scott is practically doubled-over with laughter now.

"I've had that one on the back burner for a while, actually," Stiles admits shamelessly, dropping the dividers into the cart. I don't doubt it. What is it with him and giving me weird nicknames? "Well, not the zig-zag part, just Ziggy."

"Don't you dare," I hiss warningly.

"Come on. You have to admit, it's kind of awesome."

"Awesomely _lame_. No way."

"You're taking all the joy out of this relationship, you know."

* * *

"You guys are slacking," Scott informs us as we wander through the toys department.

We've finished picking out the things we need for school and are now just wandering around aimlessly, none of us in any rush to leave. There's just something so captivating about Target. Once you're here, you're stuck for an indeterminate amount of time. There's no in-and-out, even if you swear up and down that you're only here to get the bare minimum; you end up doing a thorough sweep of the entire store and adding about a dozen more things you absolutely _don't_ need to your cart.

Like sour gummy worms. No one ever _needs_ those, but when I saw them hanging from their long iron peg in the candy aisle, I suddenly had an unbearable craving for them. Now they sit in the flip-up child seat, already open and half devoured between the three of us. (It's not a crime if I plan to pay for them, okay?) Scott is actually waving one at us—a blue and red one, my favorite—as he shakes his fist at us in reprimand for not taking our lovey-dovey duties more seriously.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says, stepping out of his hula-hoop and hanging it back on the wall. I can't hula-hoop to save my life, and Stiles isn't much better at it, but we were competing to see who sucked less when Scott obviously decides we're having too much fun. I put mine away, as well.

Stiles throws his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I feel a little thrill at the proximity. I can smell his aftershave—something fresh and masculine—and his solid warmth, pressed against my side, is comforting. "How's this?" he asks wryly.

"Better," Scott replies. "But you could be a more willing participant, Zo. We don't want Stiles to feel like this is one-sided, do we?"

I roll my eyes, but comply by wrapping my arm around Stiles's waist. My hand grazes over the side of his ribcage in just such a way—purely accidentally, of course—that Stiles gasps, his body flinching away from my touch. I look up at him, surprised. "What the hell was that?"

"Um," Stiles begins sheepishly, looking uncomfortable. "I, uh…I'm a little ticklish there."

"Oh, really?" I arch a brow curiously, biting down on my bottom lip and fighting back a smile. "That didn't seem like 'a little'."

"Yeah, well—" But I don't give Stiles a chance to finish his sentence. I stiffen my fingers, then dig them into his side deliberately, and Stiles practically _squeals_, twirling and dancing away from me.

"Zo, knock it off!" he cries as I reach for him again. But before I can make contact, Stiles grabs my wrists. I struggle, attempting to break free, laughing the whole while, and Stiles redoubles his efforts, pushing my arms backwards and gripping them tightly behind my back. This brings our bodies closer, until there's not but a breath of space left between us. Some of the laughter dies out in my lungs as I realize just how close we are, and this is different, more intimate somehow because it's real, not a calculated act.

Stiles doesn't seem to notice, though. He holds me still for a long moment, smiling triumphantly when I don't fight against him, and then suddenly he releases one of my arms and goes for my stomach. He moves so quickly I don't have time to stop him, but it doesn't matter. His effort is in vain, because I'm not ticklish there. Once he realizes this, his hand moves, sliding across my middle and going for my ribs. This doesn't work, either.

One arm now free, I attack his side again, and Stiles erupts in a fit of helpless giggles, instantly shying away.

"Dammit, Zo!" Stiles gasps, releasing me. He takes a step back, not paying attention to where he's going, and inadvertently bumps into a tall cage of bouncy balls. The cage sways under the impact, dislodging several balls and sending them flying out of the open mouth at the bottom. Stiles looks down, startled, as the colorful balls bounce against the linoleum floor around his feet. Scott and I both erupt into fits of laughter.

Stiles looks up and down the aisle, checking to see if anyone else noticed. He then kneels down, flounders around a bit in his haste to catch the escaped balls, and attempts to put them back in the cage through the mouth. The weight of the remaining balls has shifted, though, leaving no room to replace them.

I point out that they have to go in through the opening at the top of the cage, which is too high for any of us to throw without risk of missing and knocking something else over. Stiles huffs agitatedly, dropping the balls back on the floor in defeat. Checking the area once more, he then rushes down the aisle, _away_ from the ball cage, grabbing my wrist as he passes and hauling me along behind him. Scott calls out after us, wheeling the cart around and hurrying to catch up.

"Run away, people," Stiles stage whispers to us. "Just run away."

* * *

Later, after we've checked out of Target, we stop at In-n-Out Burger to grab a late lunch.

We order our food and take it to an empty booth at the front of the restaurant, by the windows. I take my seat on one side of the booth, and Stiles automatically goes to sit across from me, like he normally would any other time we ate out together, but Scott stops him. "Sit next to your 'girlfriend', doofus."

Stiles glowers at the name calling, but does as he's told, situating himself so that we're sitting close, thighs almost touching. He jabs his straw through the plastic lid of his strawberry milkshake with more force than necessary, nearly bending it in half. "Happy?" he asks, before taking a sip.

Scott nods his satisfaction, and I fake a pout. "Not like it'll kill you," I mutter petulantly.

"Oh, not you, Ziggy-doodle," Stiles coos, placing his hand over mine, which is resting on the table next to my tray, squeezing my fingers gently. "Scott might, though, with his newfound sense of superiority."

"You're the one who asked me to be ref," Scott points out, unwrapping his cheeseburger. "Ref gets to call the shots."

"But it's the coach who devises the play," Stiles returns snidely, snatching a fry out of its cardboard box and popping it into his mouth with finality.

"Enough with the sport metaphors," I intervene. "Or I'm going to disqualify you _both_. And stop trying to make Ziggy work. It'll _never_ work."

Stiles grins cheekily. "We'll see about that." To Scott, "So, how're we doing?"

Scott holds up a finger, telling us to wait while he finishes chewing the bite of burger he's just taken. After he swallows, "I give you guys a B-. Not bad, but not great, either."

"That's still passing," I point out.

"How can we improve our grade, professor?" Stiles asks. Scott lifts his shoulder in a single shrug.

"Do stuff without me telling you to," he suggests. "You guys can't expect me to remind you to hold hands, or whatever, all the time."

"Well, duh. That's the whole point of practicing, to get used to the affectionate stuff." My insides warm at the idea of there being more of this, and soon. Maybe I should be a crappier girlfriend so we'll have to practice a lot more before school starts.

"Other than that, you guys are already good together," Scott continues. "I mean, not a whole lot of awkwardness or anything. It helps that you're already good friends, I guess. There's already a relationship of sorts, now it's just…different."

"Isn't that what boyfriend-girlfriend relationships essentially are?" I ask, nibbling on a fry thoughtfully. "Friendship…plus more?"

"_Friends with Benefits_," Stiles muses, staring off into space. "Mila Kunis was hot in that."

I roll my eyes.

Sometime later, after we've all polished off our meals, Stiles excuses himself to use the restroom, leaving me alone temporarily with Scott.

"So, um," Scott begins, fiddling with the edge of his empty cheeseburger wrapper distractedly. "I don't think Stiles ever said so, but I'm sure he's sorry. About earlier."

It takes me a second to realize what he means. "Oh, you mean Stiles telling you? Whatever. I'm over it."

Scott looks surprised. "Really? You're okay with it?"

"It's a little late for that now, isn't it?" I reply, shrugging. Scott looks crestfallen, and I take pity on him, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. "There's a reason you're Stiles's best friend, Scott. Hell, even I consider you a friend now, too. You're a good guy, and I trust you not to tell anyone."

"I won't," Scott promises, relieved. "And thanks. You're a good friend too, especially to Stiles." I wave him off dismissively, feeling suddenly bashful. "No, really. You are. I think you're good for him. You keep up with him better than I can, and you don't take his shit."

I can't help laughing at this. "I think it goes both ways on that, actually."

"Maybe," Scott agrees good-naturedly, smiling. "But he needs someone like you."

If Scott wasn't all the way across the table, I'd totally hug him. As it is, I make do by thanking him with a heartfelt smile.

"Although I still think you're both crazy for pulling a stunt like this," he adds teasingly, shaking his head. I shrug, shaking my head right along with him.

A moment later, Stiles returns, standing before our table.

"Ready to go?" he asks us. I nod, sliding towards the end of the booth. Scott is about follow my example when he stops, looking over my shoulder and out the window.

"How do you guys feel about a pop quiz?" he asks suddenly, and both Stiles and I look at him confusedly. He nods towards the window. "Danny's here."

I follow Scott's line of vision to see a tall, muscular guy about our age, with tan skin and short dark hair climbing out of a red Totoya Camry. I recognize him, vaguely, as a classmate from one of my art classes at school. I think he's on the lacrosse team with Scott and Stiles, too. A younger boy climbs out of the Camry after Danny, and I assume him to be Danny's little brother, or something, because they look very similar.

"We can duck out the other door if you're not re—"

"Nah, we got this," Stiles interrupts Scott, holding his hand out in offering to me. "Right, Zo?"

"Right." I smile, accepting his hand and letting him help me to my feet. We each take our trays and dump them at the trash receptacles, leaving the trays on top, before heading towards the exit.

Just before reaching the door, Stiles wraps his arm around my waist, hand resting on the curve of my hip. I return the gesture by reaching my arm across the length of his back, stopping to grip his shoulder. We meet Danny outside, just as he's stepping onto the walkway leading up to the restaurant's entrance.

"Danny," Stiles calls out to him casually. Danny looks up from the younger boy, who is trotting along beside him, dressed in full baseball uniform, including a maroon jersey with the Beacon Hills Middle School logo emblazoned in white across the front and a matching cap. They're talking to each other—actually, more like the kid is talking animatedly _at_ Danny, while the teen plays his part as the attentive older brother and listens—but stop abruptly when they both hear Stiles.

"Hey guys," Danny rejoins, looking mildly surprised. The kid frowns at us with confusion, unsure as to who we are.

"This little dude belong to you?" Scott asks kindly.

"I'm not a _little_ dude," the kid gripes, scowling up at Scott. "I'm Corey, and I'm eleven." (Good Lord, it's another Hannah, only in Little League form.)

"Whoops, my bad," Scott says good-humoredly, raising his hands in mock surrender. Danny laughs, patting the top of the kid's head affectionately. "Nice to meet you, Corey. I'm Scott."

"My little brother," Danny informs us. "And Little League champ. Just had their last game against Baymore today. Tell 'em what the score was, Core."

"Four to two!" Corey declares proudly. Scott, Stiles and I 'ooh' and 'ahh' accordingly, offering our congratulations.

"Hey Danny," I say. "I don't know if you remember me. I think you were in my drawing class—"

"With Ms. Hubert," Danny fills in. "I remember. You're Zoe, right?" I blink, surprised he actually knows my name. I think we've talked maybe once or twice in class, not counting the feedback he sometimes provided during critiques. "You were one of the best in our class."

"O-oh, wow," I stammer, taken aback by the unexpected praise. "Thanks."

"A girl with your talents, I'd expect you to be smarter, though," Danny continues. "Please tell me you're not with this fool," he adds, looking down pointedly at Stiles's hand on my hip. Stiles scoffs, insulted.

"I'm afraid I am," I confirm, grinning. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing." Danny shakes his head. "Although I'm finally glad to know Stiles doesn't have a thing for me, after all."

"_What_?" Stiles blurts, horrified, at the same time I bark out a startled laugh. This is news to me. I look to Scott and he's also laughing, shaking his head.

"Come on, man." Danny smirks. "You kept asking me if I found you attractive."

"As a general study," Stiles proclaims defensively. His grip on me tightens, drawing my body closer to him, as if to reassert his heterosexuality. "I was curious to know if I was the type gay men find attractive."

"And _why_ would you be curious about that?" I ask slyly. Stiles glowers at me.

"I was just wanted to know, _geez_."

"You're too skinny to be Danny's type," Corey pipes up, studying Stiles closely. "He likes 'em bigger. Like his boyfriend, Chris."

"All right, kiddo," Danny says, placing a hand on Corey's shoulder. "Enough boy talk." To us, "We've gotta go, guys. It was good seeing you."

We exchange goodbyes with Danny and his brother, then head towards Stiles's Jeep. Once we're all inside, Scott leans forward between the front two seats.

"Not bad," he says, and I'm guessing he means our performance.

"Does this bump us up from a B-?" I ask teasingly. Scott hesitates, considering.

"I'll give you a B."

"That's it?" Stiles asks, starting the Jeep and backing out of the parking space. "I thought we did pretty awesomely, considering what we had to work with."

"We talked to Danny for, like, two minutes," Scott points out.

"Fair enough."

Five minutes later, Stiles asks, "I'm not _that_ skinny, am I?"

* * *

**A/N:** So, am I forgiven?


End file.
